"It really is amusing to hear how some dogs brag,
And walk about and swagger, with tails and ears a-wag,--
How they boast about their prizes and the shows they have been at,
And their coats so crisp and curly, or bodies sleek and fat,
Crying, There's no mistake about it, for judges all agree,
We're the champion dogs of England, by points and pedigree."
Heigho! I wonder what I am, then. Let me consider, I am a poor blind
fiddler's dog, to begin with; but of course that is only a trade. I
asked "Bit-o'-Fun" the other day what breed I was. Bit-o'-Fun, I should
tell you, is a champion greyhound, and not at all an unkind dog, only
just a little haughty and proud, as becomes her exalted station in life.
She was talking about the large number of prizes she had won for her
master at the various shows she had been at.
"What breed do you think I am?" I asked her. Bit-o'-Fun laughed.
"Well, little Fiddler," she replied, looking down at me with one eye, "I
should say you were what we gentry call a mongrel."
"Is that something very nice?" I inquired. "Do I come of a high
family, now?"
Bit-o'-Fun laughed now till the tears came into her eyes.
"Family!" she cried. "Yes, Fiddler, you have a deal of family in your
blood--all families, in fact. You are partly Skye and partly bulldog,
and partly collie and partly pug."
"Oh, stop!" I cried; "you will make me too proud."