One of our ventures in the way of pets was a well-bred poodle; he was very amiable, handsome, and clever, but exceedingly mischievous.  He thought it great fun to pull up neatly written and carefully disposed garden labels and carry them away to the lawn, for which, though a nuisance, he was forgiven; but his next achievement was a more serious matter.  Finding his way about the village he would take advantage of an open door to explore the cottage larders and when a chance offered, would make off with half a pound of butter or a cherished piece of meat and bring his plunder to my house in triumph.  He was succeeded by “Trump,” a Dandie Dinmont, a very charming dog with a delightful disposition, and perfectly honest until my elder daughter acquired a fox terrier, “Chips,” well-bred but highly nervous.  Chips was a born sportsman and most useful so long as he confined his activities to rats and was busy when the thrashing-machine was at work, but when he took to corrupting Trump’s morals he required watching.  Trump would be lying quietly in the house or garden as good as possible, when the insinuating tempter would find him, whisper a few words in his ear, and off they went together.  It was plainly an invitation, and later a dead duckling or chicken would show where they had spent their time.  Trump became as bad as Chips and had to be given away.  Chips was very sensitive to discordant sounds, he must have had a musical ear; his chief aversion was the sound of a gong, the beater for which was too hard and, unless very carefully manipulated, produced a jangle.  My hall was paved with hexagonal stone sections called “quarries,” which appeared to intensify the discordance.  Chips felt it keenly, and would stand quite rigid for some minutes until the last reverberation and its effect had passed off.  He was uncertain in temper and disliked some of the villagers.  An old man complained that he had been bitten, and told me with great feeling, “Folks say that if ever the dog goes mad, I shall go mad too.”  I had much difficulty in appeasing him and assuring him that there was no truth in the statement.

How shall I do justice to the infinite variety of “Wendy,” the dainty little Chinese princess who now rules my household?  There are people who cannot see in an old Worcester tea-cup and saucer the eighteenth-century beauty, fastidiously sipping, what she called in the same language as the Aldington cottager of to-day, her dish of “tay.”  There are people who regard with indifference an ancient chair, except as an object to be sat upon, and who fail to realize its historical charm, or even the credit due to the maker of a piece of furniture that has survived two hundred and fifty spring cleanings.

And there are people who can see nothing in the Pekingese, nothing of the distinction and “the claims of long descent,” nothing of the possibilities of transmigration, or of present ever-changing and human moods.  Such are the people who suppose that the “dulness of the country,” and the attraction of the shams and inanities of the picture palace induced the starving agricultural labourer willingly to exchange the blue vault of heaven for the leaden pall of London fogs, cool green pastures for the scorching pavement, and the fragrant shelter of the hedgerow blossoms for the stifling slum and the crowded factory.