I have forgotten where I found the next story of an old dog who was also very sagacious.  Hunting dogs, when they grow old, become rheumatic, or are at least debilitated with pains.  We know, too, that they crave heat, and get as near the fire as possible—­a craving which increases as they grow older.  One such dog, older than the others, and slower in getting into the lodge on returning from the hunt, was often crowded away from the fire by the other livelier dogs getting all the best places before him.  Finding himself thus turned out in the cold, he would dash toward the door barking, when the others, supposing it was an alarm, would rush away too, while the old rheumatic went to the fire and selected a place to suit him.

It is not necessary to dwell upon the intelligence shown by such acts.  But it is hardly contestable that the old animal, who knows how to play such tricks upon his less experienced companions, deceives them by his intonations, while he is well aware that no enemy is approaching the house; but he does it scientifically, by the inflections of his voice, as a man speaking to other men would do in announcing the arrival of an imaginary enemy.

Inarticulate cries are all pretty much the same to us; their inflections, duration, pitch, abruptness, and prolongation alone can inform us of their purpose.  But experience and close attention have shown us the connection of these variations with the acts that accompany or precede them.  Animals evidently understand these inflections at once.  We cannot better compare the language of animals than with what takes place in a pleasant sport, a kind of pantomime of the voice or language which many youth doubtless understand, and which I venture to refer to here to aid in more easily conceiving of the communication of thought among animals by sounds which seem to us all alike.  When I was engaged in hospitals, the evenings in the guard room were sometimes enlivened by the presence of a companion who excelled in humorous mimicry.  He would represent a man in liquor who had stopped at a fountain that flowed with a gentle sound, somewhat like that of his own hiccough.  A single oath, pronounced in different tones, was sufficient to enable us to comprehend all the impressions, all the states of mind through which this devotee of Bacchus passed.  The oath, at first pronounced slowly and with an accent expressing relief, represented a feeling of satisfaction, with shadings of prolonged exclamation which it would be hard for one to imagine without suggestion.  The continued flowing of the fountain made our drunken man impatient, and he wanted it to stop.  This state of mind was translated by a new modulation of the same word.  In a little while the gurgling of the fountain produced astonishment.  Was it possible that he, with all the liquid he had imbibed, could vomit so much and for so long a time?  This mental condition was expressed by a new modulation of the same oath.  The first movement of surprise