voices, their foster-mother was as much annoyed as she now seems to be by the swimming of the ducklings—and never failed to repress their attempts at crowing.

    James Hogg, the shepherd poet, had a dog named Sirrah, who was for many years his sole companion. He was, the shepherd says, the best dog he ever saw, in spite of his surly manners and unprepossessing appearance. The first time he saw the dog, a drover was leading him by a rope, and, although hungry and lean, “I thought,” Hogg tells us, “I discovered a sort of sullen intelligence in his face, so I gave the drover a guinea for him. I believe there never was a guinea so well laid out. He was scarcely then a year old, and knew nothing of herding; but as soon as he discovered that it was his duty to do so, I can never forget with what eagerness he learned. He would try every way till he found out what I wanted him to do; and when once I made him to understand a direction, he never forgot or mistook it again.”

    About seven hundred lambs, which were at once under Mr. Hogg’s care, broke up at midnight, and scampered off in three divisions across the hills, in spite of all that the shepherd and an assistant lad could do to keep them together. “Sirrah,” cried the shepherd, in great affliction, “my man, they’re a’ awa.” The night was so dark that he did not see Sirrah; but the faithful animal had heard his master’s words, and without more ado he set off in quest of the flock. The shepherd and his companion spent the whole night in scouring the hills, but of neither the lambs nor Sirrah could they obtain the slightest trace. “We had nothing for it,” says the shepherd, “but to return to our master, and inform him that we had lost his whole flock of lambs. On our way home, however, we discovered a body of lambs at the bottom of a deep ravine, and Sirrah standing in front of them, looking all around for some relief. We concluded that it was one of the divisions of the lambs which Sirrah had been unable to manage until he came to that commanding situation. But what was our astonishment when we discovered by degrees that not one was wanting! How he had got all the divisions collected in the dark is beyond my comprehension. I never felt so grateful to any creature below the sun as I did to my honest Sirrah that morning.”

    A constable once made a complaint before a bench of London magistrates against a horse for stealing hay. The complainant stated that the horse came regularly every night of its own accord, and without any attendant, to the coach-stands in St. George’s, fully satisfied his appetite, and then galloped away. He defied the whole of the parish 

 Prev. P 28/44 next