ane will betray him, he
assumes a calm and happy air. But this is a lie so natural that I for
one cannot blame the liar.

In my life with dogs I have felt much more clearly their desire to speak,
and to speak truth, than the wish to deceive. I had an old Scotch
terrier, who in his youth, before I knew him, had been called Nigel, no
doubt because he was black and small, but as he grew up he somehow
acquired the uncouth name of Scrubbins. At one stage of his career he
was condemned to death for eczema. I begged him off, and he lived some
five years with me, and was cured of his eczema by the devoted care of a
servant. He was a dog of large heart, who, while he cared for others,
was especially devoted to me. In his old age his eyes became dim and his
limbs stiff. He had a pathetic way of standing staring into my eyes, or
with difficulty getting his paws on to my knees to ask to have his head
rubbed, an attention of which he never wearied. No one could doubt that
this was his expression of the mutual love that bound us to each other.
This was the indestructible impression produced, and it is useless to
tell me that he may have been striving to conceal some crime, or at least
some base and worldly point of view. When sentiment is applied to facts,
rational conclusions are apt to be rare--but without a share of sentiment
there might have been no facts to record.

There are innumerable cases proving the devotion of dogs--a passion
surviving the master's death, and prolonged until the dog himself dies.
Such is the story of the heroic dog seen to watch his master's dead body
in South America, keeping the vultures off it, and only allowing himself
an occasional rush to the river for water, until he too died. What is
there here but a passion of love? We may call it instinct, but what is
the love of a human mother?

A dog differs from his master in not taking offence; you may tread on his
tail and he will only apologise for being in your way. But I have known
a dog bite his mistress when she interfered with him in a fight, while he
was beside himself with anger. In the same way an unhappy dog caught in
a trap may be so maddened with pain as to attempt to bite those who seek
to free him, but these are extreme cases. It is again part of this same
lovable quality of dogs that they are not given to moods. They are
always ready to welcome us and to wag tails when we notice them.

M. Anatole France shows in some ways a