"Why don't you fetch the sticks out when the children throw them in?"
"I don't care about sticks," he said.
"But it's so grand and clever to be able to fetch them out."
"Is it?" he answered.
"I know it is, for the children tell me so."
"Do they?" he said.
"I wonder you are not ashamed," I went on, a little nettled by his
meekness, "never to do anything useful. I should be, if I were you."
"Ah," he said, "but you see you are not. Good night."
We used to spend a great deal of time by the river. The children loved
to play there, and we dogs were always expected to go with them.
One day, as I was lying asleep on the warm grass by the river bank, I
heard a splash. I jumped in, but there was no stick, only one of the
children floating down on the stream, and screaming whenever her head
came from under the water.
I thought it was a new kind of game, not very interesting, so I swam out
again; and just as I was shaking the water out of my ears, I heard
another great flop, and there was Rover in the water, holding on to the
child's dress. He pulled her out some ten yards down the stream; and oh!
if you could have seen the fuss that the master and mistress and the
rest of the children made of that black and white spotted person!
"Why, Rover," I said afterwards, when we had got home and were
talking it over, "whatever made you think that the child wanted to be
pulled out of the water?"
"It's my business to pull people out of the water," he said.
"But," I urged, "I always thought you were too stupid to understand
things."
"Did you?" he said, turning his mild eyes on me.
"Why didn't you explain to me that you----"
"My dear dog," he said, "I never think it worth while to fetch sticks
out of the water, and I never think it worth while to explain things to
stupid people."