opolitan story of the
catspaw (with the improvement of making it pleasant for the cat), and
accomplish the proverbially desirable feat of minding both his meat and
his manners. If we could be secured against their imitation, it would be
pleasant to ask our own domestic pets the problems:

"What do you think of that, my cat?"
"What do you think of that, my dog?"

A CONSTANT READER AND DISCIPLE.

THE BIOGRAPHY OF SPRIG.

[_Jan. 20, 1872._]

I dare not hope to equal the eloquent and most touching biography of
Nero, with whom I had the honour of a slight acquaintance. But I was the
possessor of an animal who, in his way as a dog, not a cat, for
originality of character, reasoning power, talent, and devoted affection
I have never seen equalled in his species, and you and your readers may
possibly be interested by a sketch of his biography.

Where Sprig was born I do not know, nor had I any acquaintance with his
parents. One morning several years ago I chanced to go down stairs
early, and found the milk-boy at the hall door, delivering his daily
supply to the cook. In the courtyard before my house was a
bright-looking rough terrier of small size, frisking about very
cheerfully, trying to catch the small stump of a tail which some cruel
despoiler had left him. As he was engaged in this pastime, a large brown
retriever entered the gate, to look on, I suppose, for he had an amused
expression of face, and was wagging his tail amicably. Sprig, however,
though but a mite in comparison, decidedly resented the intrusion, and
flew at the retriever's throat, from which he had to be choked off by
his owner, who brought him back in his arms. The little fellow was in
the highest state of excitement and anger, his bright, intelligent eyes
flashing, and his hair bristling. He was indeed most amusingly fierce,
but was soon calmed when he was shown, and told, that his enemy had
fled, whereupon the following colloquy ensued between myself and his
owner: Myself: "And where did you get that dog, boy? You did not steal
him, I hope?" Boy, in a rich Dublin brogue: "Ah, now! would I stale
anythin', yer honner, an' me the poor milk-boy? Is it stale him? Bedad,
it's my father's cuzin that's at the Curragh! Sure he's a corporal, so
he is. He brought him, and he sez, 'Yez'll get me a pound for him, and
no less.' So it's a pound I want for him, sur, and nothin' less. An'
sure John Lambert knows me well--so he does!"