It did one good to see him “come on,” a big pink bow knotted in the
tufts that adorned his tail. He would enter gravely, bow politely to
right and left, then cast a questioning look at his master, quite
motionless the while, except for a slight quiver of the tail, waiting
for the conclusion of the introductory remarks which the “old man” never
failed to address to the audience. At last came the loud “Hi,
Murph!”—and the good dog began his evening’s work.
He could have given points to the most experienced actors by his aplomb,
his punctiliousness, his patient and never-flagging attention. Nothing
ever distracted him from his part. Wags would amuse themselves sometimes
by offering him a lump of sugar, or even pitch a sausage or a cake right
between his paws; but Murph was adamant against such temptations. How
the crowd cheered and clapped hands and stamped feet when he went
bounding from hoop to hoop, so supple and nimble and self-possessed,
never losing step or missing a spring, striking the paper with his head
fair and square in the middle every time, crashing through and landing
again on his feet, gravely and yet so elegantly.
His tricks finished, he would repeat his bows to right and left, still
quite sedate and unintoxicated by the thunders of applause. The fact is,
Murph respected both his audience and himself; he knew how to keep his
feelings to himself—how different from those ill-trained dogs that yelp
and bark and lose their heads in the hurly-burly, quite forgetting that
the finest thing on earth is to take one’s triumph modestly.