for our walk—I, cheerful, and drinking in healthy draughts of the fresh, frosty aether; he with great red tongue lolling out, as he trotted along in front of me, coming back every second step and looking up into my face with a broad grin on his jaws and a roguish glance in his brown eyes—I suppose at some funny canine joke or other, which he could not permit me to share—or else, darting backwards and forwards, gleefully barking and making sundry feints and dashes at me; or, prancing up in his elephantine bounds, with felonious intentions regarding my walking stick, which he considered he had a much better right to carry than myself.

We had lots of meetings and greetings when strolling along.

First, there was the gardener’s dog at the corner, an old chum of Catch’s, who passed the time of day to us with a cheerful bow-wow; although I was surprised to see that he had not “a posy tied to his tail,” according to the orthodox adage of typical smartness. Then there was the milkman’s dog, a gaunt retriever like mine, but of a very bad disposition, and a surly brute withal. He and Catch were deadly foes, as is frequently the case with dogs of the same breed; so, of course, they could never meet without quarrelling: on this occasion they exchanged ferocious challenges, and parted with signs and symptoms of unmitigated contempt on both sides, expressed by growls and barks, tail risings, and mane upliftings.

Further on, we encountered Mrs O’Flannagan, an Irish lady, who kept the fruit stall at the corner by the cross roads. She was dressed, as neatly as a new pin, in an “illigant” Connemara cloak, which seemed to be donned for the first time, besides a bran new bonnet; and, thanks to “elbow grease,” her peachy, soap-scrubbed cheeks shone again. She was returning from early chapel, whither she had gone to mass and confession; and where I trust she had received absolution for her little peccadilloes. I’ve no doubt she did get absolution, for she told me that Father Macmanus was “a raal gintleman.”

Then Catch chased a roving cat until it got within the neighbouring shelter of its domiciliary railings, whence it me-ai-ouwed to him, through all the vowels of pussy’s vocabulary, a Christmas compliment—with, probably, a curse tacked on to the tail of it, or that “phoo! phoo! phiz!” meant nothing. But the feline expletives were all thrown away; for Catch was only “full of fun and with nobody to play with him,” like Peter Mooney’s goose, and had only chased pussy in the natural exuberance of his spirits, having no “hard feelings” towards her, or any desire, I know, to injure her soft 

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