There was a look in the dark-brown eyes of Dolls that was very
captivating when you saw it. I say when you saw it, because it wasn't
always you could see it, for Dolls' face was so covered with his
dishevelled locks, that the only wonder was that he could find his way
about at all.
Dolls was a Scotch terrier--a _real_ Scotch terrier. Reddish or sandy
was he all over--in fact, he was just about the colour of gravel in the
gloaming; I am quite sure of this, because when he went out with me
about the twilight hour, I couldn't see him any more than if he wasn't
in existence; when it grew a little darker, strange to say, Dolls became
visible once more.
Plenty of coat had Dolls too. You could have hidden a glove under his
mane, and nobody been a bit the wiser. When he sat on one end, gazing
steadfastly up into a tree, from which some independent pussy stared
saucily down upon him, Dolls looked for all the world like a doggie
image draped in a little blanket.
Dolls had a habit of treeing pussies. This, indeed, was about the only
bad trait in Dolls' character. He hated a pussy more than sour milk,
and nobody knew this better than the pussies themselves. Probably,
indeed, they were partly to blame for maintaining the warfare. I've
seen a cat in a tree, apparently trying her very best to mesmerise poor
Dolls--Dolls blinking funnily up at her, she gazing cunningly down.
There they would sit and sit, till suddenly down to the ground would
spring pussy, and with a warlike and startling "Fuss!" that quite took
the doggie's breath away, and made all his hair stand on end, clout
Master Dolls in the face, and before that queer wee specimen of caninity
could recover his equanimity, disappear through a neighbouring hedgerow.
Now cats have a good deal more patience than dogs. Sometimes on coming
trotting home of an evening, Dolls would find a cat perched up in the
pear-tree sparrow-expectant.
"Oh! _you're_ there, are you?" Dolls would say. "Well, I'm not in any
particular hurry, I can easily wait a bit." And down he would sit, with
his head in the air.
"All right, Dolls, my doggie," Pussy would reply. "I've just eaten a
sparrow, and not long ago I had a fine fat mouse, and, milk with it, and
now I'll have a nap. Nice evening, isn't it?"
Well, Master Dolls would watch there, maybe for one hour and maybe for
two, by which time his patience would become completely exhausted.
"You're not worth a wag of my tail," Dolls would say. "So good-night."
Then off he would trot.
But Dolls wasn't a beauty, by any manner of means. I don't think
anybody who wasn't an admirer of doormats, and a connoisseur in heather
besoms could have found much about Dolls to go into raptures over, but,
somehow or other, the little chap always managed to find friends
wherever he went.
Dolls was a safe doggie with children, that is, with well-dressed,
clean-looking children, but with the gutter portion of the population
Dolls waged continual warfare. Doubtless, because they teased him, and
made believe to throw pebbles at him, though I don't think they ever did
in reality.
Dolls was a great believer in the virtues of fresh air, and spent much
of his time out of doors. He had three or four houses, too, in the
village which he used to visit regularly once, and sometimes twice, a
day. He would trot into a kitchen with a friendly wag or two of his
little tail, which said, plainly enough, "Isn't it wet, though?" or
"Here is jolly weather just!"
"Come away, Dolls," was his usual greeting.
Thus welcomed, Dolls would toddle farther in, and seat himself by the
fire, and gaze dreamily in through the bars at the burning coals,
looking all the while as serious as possible.
I've often wondered, and other people used to wonder too, what Dolls
could have been thinking about as he sat thus. Perhaps--like many a
wiser head--he was building little morsels of castles in the air,
castles that would have just the same silly ending as yours or mine,
reader--wondering what he should do if he came to be a great big
bouncing dog like Wolf the mastiff; how all the little doggies would
crouch before him, and how dignified he would look as he strode
haughtily away from them; and so on, and so forth. But perhaps, after
all, Dolls was merely warming his mite of a nose, and not giving himself
up to any line of thought in particular.
Now, it wasn't with human beings alone that this doggie was a favourite;
and what I am now going to mention is rather strange, if not funny. You
see, Dolls always got out early in the morning. There was a great
number of other little dogs in the village besides himself--poodles,
Pomeranians, and Skyes, doggies of every denomination and all shades of
colour, and many of these got up early too. There is no doubt early
morn is the best time for small dogs, because little boys are not yet
up, and so can't molest them. Well, it did seem that each of these
doggies, almost every morning, made up its mind to come and visit Dolls.
At all events, most of them _did_ come, and, therefore, Dolls was wont
to hold quite a tiny _levee_ on the lawn shortly after sunrise.
After making obeisance to General Dolls, these doggies would form
themselves into a _conversazione_, and go promenading round the
rose-trees in twos and twos.
Goodness only knows what they talked about; but I must tell you that
these meetings were nearly always of a peaceable, amicable nature. Only
once do I remember a _conversazione_ ending in a general conflict.
"Well," said Dolls, "if it _is_ going to be a free fight, I'm in with
you." Then Dolls threw himself into it heart and soul.
But to draw the story of Dolls to a conclusion, there came to live near
my cottage home an old sailor, one of Frank's friends. This ancient
mariner was one of the Tom Bowling type, for the darling of many a crew
he had been in his time, without doubt. There was good-nature, combined
with pluck, in every lineament of his manly, well-worn, red and rosy
countenance, and his hair was whitened--not by the snows of well-nigh
sixty winters, for I rather fancy it was the summers that did it, the
summers' heat, and the _bearing of_ the brunt of many a tempest, and the
anxiety inseparable from a merchant skipper's pillow. There was a merry
twinkle in his eyes, that put you mightily in mind of the monks of old.
And when he gave you his hand, it was none of your half-and-half shakes,
let me tell you; that there was honesty in every throb of that man's
heart you could tell from that very grasp.
Yes, he was a jolly old tar, and a good old tar; and he hadn't seen
Dolls and been in his company for two hours, before he fell in love with
the dog downright, and, says he, "Doctor, you want a good home for
Dolls; there is something in the little man's eye that I a sort of like.
As long as he sails with me, he'll never want a good bed, nor a good
dinner; so, if you'll give him to me, I'll be glad to take him."
We shook hands.
Now this was to be the last voyage that ever that ancient mariner meant
to make, until he made that long voyage which we all must do one of
these days. And it _was_ his last too; not, however, in the way you
generally read of in stories, for the ship didn't go down, and he wasn't
drowned, neither was Dolls. On the contrary, my friend returned,
looking as hale and hearty as ever, and took a cottage in the country,
meaning to live happily and comfortably ever after. And almost the
first intimation I received of his return was carried by the doggie
himself, for going out one fine morning, I found Dolls on the lawn,
surrounded as usual, by about a dozen other wee doggies, to whom, from
their spellbound look, I haven't a doubt he was telling the story of his
wonderful adventures by sea and by land, for, mind you, Dolls had been
all the way to Calcutta. And Dolls was so happy to see me again, and
the lawn, and the rose-trees, and vagrant pussies, and no change in
anything, that he was fain to throw himself at my feet and weep in the
exuberance of his joy.
Dolls' new home was at H--, just three miles from mine; and this is
somewhat strange--regularly, once a month the little fellow would trot
over, all by himself, and see me. He remained in the garden one whole
day, and slept on the doormat one whole night, but could never be
induced either to _enter the house or to partake of food_. So no one
could accuse Dolls of cupboard love. When the twenty-four hours which
he allotted to himself for the visit were over, Dolls simply trotted
home again, but, as sure as the moon, he returned again in another
month.
A bitter, bitter winter followed quickly on the heels of that pleasant
summer of 187--. The snow fell fast, and the cold was intense,
thermometer at times sinking below zero. You could ran the thrushes
down, and catch them by hand, so lifeless were they; and I could show
you the bushes any day where blackbirds dropped lifeless on their
perches. Even rooks came on to the lawn to beg; they said there wasn't
a hip nor a haw to be found in all the countryside. And robin said he
couldn't sing at all on his usual perch, the frost and the wind quite
took his breath away; so he came inside to warm his toes.
One wild stormy night, I had retired a full hour sooner to rest, for the
wind had kept moaning so, as it does around a country house. The wind
moaned, and fiercely shook the windows, and the powdery snow sifted in
under the hall-door, in spite of every arrangement to prevent it. I
must have been nearly asleep, but I opened my eyes and started at
_that_--a plaintive cry, rising high over the voice of the wind, and
dying away again in mournful cadence. Twice it was repeated, then I
heard no more. It must have been the wind whistling through the
keyhole, I thought, as I sunk to sleep. Perhaps it was, reader; but
early next morning I found poor wee Dolls dead on the doorstep.