"Your head, Fiddler, is decidedly Scotch; your legs are Irish--awfully
Irish; you are tulip-eared, ring-tailed, and your feather--"
"My feather!" I cried, looking round at my back. "You never mean to
say I have got feathers."
"Your hair, then, goosie; feather is the technical term. Your feather
is flat, decidedly flat. And, in fact, you're a most wonderful specimen
altogether. That's your breed."