IT is Chum's birthday to-morrow, and I am going to buy him a little
whip for a present, with a whistle at the end of it. When I next go
into the country to see him I shall take it with me and explain it
to him. Two days' firmness would make him quite a sensible dog. I
have often threatened to begin the treatment on my very next visit,
but somehow it has been put off; the occasion of his birthday offers
a last opportunity.
It is rather absurd, though, to talk of birthdays in connection with
Chum, for he has been no more than three months old since we have
had him. He is a black spaniel who has never grown up. He has a
beautiful astrakhan coat which gleams when the sun is on it; but he
stands so low in the water that the front of it is always getting
dirty, and his ears and the ends of his trousers trail in the mud. A
great authority has told us that, but for three white hairs on his
shirt (upon so little do class distinctions hang), he would be a
Cocker of irreproachable birth. A still greater authority has sworn
that he is a Sussex. The family is indifferent--it only calls him a
Silly Ass. Why he was christened Chum I do not know; and as he never
recognizes the name it doesn't matter.
When he first came to stay with us I took him a walk round the
village. I wanted to show him the lie of the land. He had never seen
the country before and was full of interest. He trotted into a
cottage garden and came back with something to show me.
"You'll never guess," he said. "Look!" and he dropped at my feet a
chick just out of the egg.