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HAVE DOGS INTELLIGENCE?

HIS question has been much discussed, but not so settled that all considering it have come to the same conclusion. One would think, from the way she is speaking to it, that the little girl in the picture thinks her dog has intelligence; and, to see how knowing he looks, we are not surprised at her opinion. He is as attentive to what his little mistress is saying and doing, as if he knew all about it. I have no doubt he does know a great deal, and will remember it too; of which he will give practical proof some day when his mistress requires him. The dog is often called an irrational animal, and, compared with man, it may be just thus to describe him, as, according to the poet, man's intelligence loses a measure of its greatness when compared with an angel's :—

"Superior beings, when of late they saw
A mortal man explain all Nature's law;
Admired such wisdom in a human shape,

And showed our Newton as we show an ape."

Not very complimentary that to the great Sir Isaac Newton, and we do not endorse the sentiment of Pope as true, but it serves us for an illustration. Dogs may not be gifted with all the intelligence man has, yet from that it does not follow that they have no intelligence at all. In their way, and within the limits of their faculties, they can reason as well as we. The many authentic anecdotes of the dog's sagacity abundantly prove this, A gentleman told us he had a little dog which always accompanied him when he went a shooting. On one occasion this dog was worried by another as they passed through a farmyard. Ever after, when they were approaching the place of his ill-treatment, he would creep close to the heels of his master, nor leave him till he was out of the reach of his enemy. But one day a friend accompanied him on his shooting excursion, and he had with him a large and powerful animal. At this time the little dog never sought the protection of his master as they came to the farmyard, but he scampered off before them and acted towards the dog in a way to provoke him to an attack, knowing he had a companion who could protect him and give his old enemy a thrashing beside, which he evidently wished him to have.

Sir Walter Scott tells a curious story of one of his dogs.

It one

day furiously attacked the baker, and was with great difficulty called off. But as the dog observed the baker coming every day to leave bread for the family, he began to regard him in a favourable light, and in time the dog and baker became great friends. One day Sir Walter was telling somebody how the dog had attacked the baker, and immediately he began the story the dog sulked into the corner of the room, turned his face to the wall, hung down his ears, and lowered his tail, and displayed every sign of being heartily a amed of himself. But when Sir Walter came to the end of the story, and s. id, "But Tray didn't bite the baker," the dog turned round in a moment jumped and frisked about, and was evidently quite restored to his own good opinion. To try the dog, Scott repeated the story in different tones of voice, and in the midst even of another conversation, but it was always the same. Directly he began the dog crept into the corner; but when he came to "But Tray didn't bite the baker," he always capered back in triumph.

BEN BARLOW'S BUDGET.

By TOM BROWN, Author of " A Year at School," &c., &c.

Letter No. 13.

From BEN BARLOW to Mrs. BARLOW.

MY DEAR MOTHER.

Waterside House, Worcester,
March 12th, 187-.

Your kind letter made me feel very serious. I am so sorry I have made you anxious, for I know now, more than ever I did at home, what a dear, loving mother you are. I really will try to do better at my lessons. Perhaps I might have said more about them, but they are such dry things that I never care to talk or write much about them after I have done with them.

The mud on my clothes was caused by my getting upset into the river-it was only a few inches deep just there. I was out again directly, and am none the worse for it. You know, dear mother, even if it had been in the middle of the river, I should have been all right, for last summer father would have me learn to swim with my clothes on at Hammerthorpe Baths. My things would not have looked so bad, only one of the boys advised me to try to wash them.

Do not be anxious about me, dear mother. I will take care not to

get hurt, and will also try to be as good as you would wish me. Give my love to father, to Clara and Helen, to Bob, and to all inquiring friends. I remain, my dearest mother, your ever affectionate son,

Letter No. 14.

From Dr. BARLOW to BEN BARLOW.

BEN.

The Laurels, Woodbourne,
March 14th, 187—.

MY DEAR BEN,

What is this I hear from your mother about your falling into the river ? You must have been knocking about in a very foolish and dangerous way for you to get upset. I hope you were not quarrelling or fighting. You know I thoroughly dislike fighting. you had been in mid-stream instead of at the side, and you had not been a good swimmer, why, of course, you would have been drowned. Let me know all about it, and mind and keep out of mischief.—With best love, your affectionate father,

If

OLIVER BARLOW.

Letter No. 15.

From BEN BARLOW to DR. BARLOW.

MY DEAR FATHER,—

Waterside House, Worcester.
March 18th, 187—.

I got your letter two days ago. I am sorry to say we were quarrelling in the boat. One of the fellows wanted to row "stroke " oar. I was in the seat first and wouldn't give up, so he knocked me over the side. I thought of what you said about fighting. You will recollect you said it was sometimes right to fight. And I thought you wouldn't like to see me stand to be knocked about by a big, bullying fellow if I was able to take care of myself. So I challenged him to fight, and we fought in the boathouse. He is a head taller than I am, but after three rounds he would not stand up again. I am all right, only I got a black eye.

I hope you will think I did right. I don't think I shall ever have to fight with him again, for he has been quite civil with everybody since. Please don't tell mother or sisters. It would only put them about and frighten them. I said my Latin better to-day than I have ever done it yet. I remain, dear father, your affectionate son,

BEN.

P.S.-I think you promised to tell me how it was Dr. Tasker got lamed. I wish you would do so in next letter. I asked Mr. Macpherson-one of the masters-but he said he only knew that it was done in the water somehow.

Be sure and not let mother see this letter-she is so timid.

Letter No. 16.

From CHARLIE THORNTON to BEN BARLOW.

MY DEAR BEN,

High Street, Woodbourne,

April 4th, 187-.

Your last letter was a grand one. I read that part of it about the game at "hare and hounds" to the boys in the playground, and nothing would do but we must have a run. So last Saturday we got some old copy-books and cut them up for "scent." Tom Blunt and John Williams were the hares, because they knew the roads best, besides being good runners.

The hares started off at two o'clock, and at ten minutes past two about a dozen of us hounds followed them. It was jolly fun. There wasn't much trouble to track them, for they dropped "scent" nearly every three yards; but what put us about was, that they crossed the scent over and over again, and as we could not pick up all the bits of paper we sometimes went over the same ground two or three times, with the idea that we were following a new track.

We followed them down High Street, round Mill Lane, across Fall End Common, and through Upleigh Wood. We were in the wood for quite an hour following one scent after another. They own now that they ran in circles round the rising ground in the wood, and that they several times heard us laughing and shouting within a score yards of where they were hid behind the hill.

But the best fun was at Farmer Wilkes's, at Crop Hall, about half way to Hammerthorpe. The farmer and his men were at work hedging and ditching, but as Tom Blunt and John Williams knew him, they bolted straight through his foalyard, and got leave to run right alongside the very hedge they were mending, across the bottom of his garden, and so again into the road.

Well, when we hounds found the "scent" turn into Farmer Wilkes's yard, we all rushed through the gateway, scattering the fowls and pigs in forty directions. This started the dog, who came yelping out after us, and tore a piece from the leg of Edgar Foster's trousers-he happened to be last.

When we got through the yard we found the "scent " leading into a field of spring wheat, so over the fence we went, and, instead of keeping close to the ditch, we went trampling two or three yards into the wheat. We were tearing along in this fashion, shouting and laughing, when at a sudden turn of the hedge we caught sight of Farmer Wilkes and two of his men coming after us as fast as they could drive. The farmer was awfully angry, and vowed he would summon us all, but we, of course, took "leg bail" and managed to get clear away, all except Joe Bland, who didn't half try. But Mr. Wilkes didn't say much to him, because he had been keeping close to the hedge, and had tried to persuade the rest to do the same.

That way of playing "hare and hounds " may do at Worcester,

but if we played it here often, we should have the farmers on the look-out for us, I'm afraid.

I have to go into the shop now, so must say "good-bye" for the present. I remain, yours truly, CHARLIE THORNTON.

P.S.-You didn't tell me if you had turned the tables on Ted Instone. Let me know about that fight too. Of course you thrashed the fellow.

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Your letter of the 18th ult. has shown me how careful parents have need to be in laying down rules for their children's conduct. I recollect I did say once, in answer to one of your questions, that there are times when it is right to fight. But for the once that I made that admission I have quite a score times warned you of the folly and wickedness of fighting in general. But there, the first time you get across with a school-fellow, you willingly forget the score of admonitions, and gladly remember the solitary admission. You jump to the conclusion that the case in question is one of those which justify a battle, and forthwith you roll up your sleeves and pitch into your adversary.

It is very difficult for me to judge accurately without knowing all the circumstances, but it certainly seems to me that you had great provocation. You say you thought I should not like to see you "stand to be knocked about by a big, bullying fellow." I certainly should not, if I thought you suffered it merely because you had not the courage to defend yourself; but, knowing as I do, that you are brave enough to protect yourself, even against boys bigger and stronger, I should have been proud to see you restrain your anger and bear the provocation calmly. You would have shown far more courage by suffering the injury, and running the risk of being called a coward for not revenging it, than you did by thrashing your bigger schoolfellow. You might possibly have conquered him by

kindness.

But I don't know that you would. I have had to do with several bullying folks in my time, and, as a rule, they could only be cured by a good thrashing; and as you say your opponent has been quite "civil with everyone since," let us hope the fight did him good. But if it did, you must not take credit for it; for you know we must not do evil that good may come of it, even in curing overbearing schoolboys.

And now for future. You are just a little quick-tempered. Perhaps you inherit it from me. It will, therefore, be a safe rule for you

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