A very long doggie is Dandie, with little short bits of legs, nice close
hanging ears, hair as strong and rough as the brush you use for your
hair, and a face--well, some say it is ugly; I myself, and all my
friends, think it is most engaging. To be sure, it is partially hidden
with bonnie soft locks of an ambery or golden hue; but push those locks
aside, and you will see nothing in those beautiful dark hazel eyes but
love and fun. For Dandie is fall of fun. Oh! doesn't she enjoy a run
out with the children! On the road she goes feathering, here, there,
and everywhere. Her legs are hardly straight, you must understand--the
legs of very few Dandies are, for they are so accustomed to go down
drains, and all sorts of holes, and go scraping here, and scraping
there, that their feet and fore-legs turn at last something like a
mole's.
Dandie wasn't always the gentle loving creature she is now, and this is
the reason I am writing her story. Here, then, is how I came by Dandie.
I was sitting in my study one morning, writing as usual, when a carriage
stopped at the door, and presently a friend was announced.
"Why, Dawson, my boy!" I cried, getting up to greet him, "what wind
blew you all the way here?"
"Not a good one, by any means," said Dawson; "I came to see you."
"Well, well, sit down, and tell me all about it. I sincerely hope Miss
Hall is well."
"Well! yes," he replied abstractedly. "I think I've done all for the
best; though that policeman nearly had her. But she left her mark on
him. Ha! ha!"