nest, but when the
shocking old mother, apparently in a fit of temper, deliberately pushed
her children out herself, and they fell, one by one, to instant death
on the rock below, Wallace's grief and horror were too great for a
child's good. His resourceful father therefore proposed a grand
funeral, as the only testimony of regard and regret that we could offer
to the unlucky fledgelings, and Wallace, who was much preoccupied with
his future career, having at one time planned to be a dentist in the
forenoon, a musician in the afternoon, and an editor at night, entered
with enthusiasm upon the duties of undertaker, sexton, and clergyman.
Called upon for an anthem, I responded with a lament which Wallace
found "too sad" to hear more than twice. On the second occasion it was
intoned at the tiny grave, above which Sigurd drooped a puzzled head,
not understanding a game that had in it neither romp nor laughter.

Though fond of Wallace, our collie's bearing toward small boys in
general was not conspicuous for cordiality. Women he accepted as
essential to the running of the universe; men--except for those
vindictive monsters perched on express teams with long whips in
hand--he regarded with amiable indifference; but about small boys he
was dubious. Some of our rougher little neighbors had stoned and
snowballed the new puppy. At Christmas we met that situation by
converting Sigurd into Santa Claus,--dressing him up in holly ribbon
and sleighbells and hanging on him the little gifts which we were in
the way of taking about to the children on our hill. The immediate
effect was excellent. Sigurd was thanked and patted and, in his
pleasure at such appreciation, he would magnanimously lick the boyish
hands that had been so often raised against him. One urchin was so
impressed by a toy fire-engine that, at least through January, he
touched his cap to "Mr. Sigurd" whenever they met; but with Fourth of
July and Hallowe'en our troubles were all renewed. Firecrackers and
torpedoes are so disconcerting to collie nerves that no normally bad
boy could resist setting them off under Sigurd's very nose,
somersaulting with ecstasy to see his instantaneous bolt for home;
while on Hallowe'en all the youngsters on the hill would call in a
troop, weirdly disguised, swinging Jack-o'-Lanterns and banging,
scraping, whistling, piping, on strange instruments not of music. On
these distracting occasions Sigurd was ready to tear those giggling
spooks t