village, telling a series of lies to the watchmaker, and
bribing him with a shilling to mend his pipes--"his kist o' whussels."

JOCK

Was insane from his birth; at first an _amabilis insania_, but ending in
mischief and sudden death. He was an English terrier, fawn-colored; his
mother's name VAMP (Vampire), and his father's DEMON. He was more
properly _daft_ than mad; his courage, muscularity, and prodigious
animal spirits making him insufferable, and never allowing one sane
feature of himself any chance. No sooner was the street door open, than
he was throttling the first dog passing, bringing upon himself and me
endless grief. Cats he tossed up into the air, and crushed their spines
as they fell. Old ladies he upset by jumping over their heads; old
gentlemen by running between their legs. At home, he would think nothing
of leaping through the tea-things, upsetting the urn, cream, etc., and
at dinner the same sort of thing. I believe if I could have found time
to thrash him sufficiently, and let him be a year older, we might have
kept him; but having upset an Earl when the streets were muddy, I had to
part with him. He was sent to a clergyman in the island of Westray, one
of the Orkneys; and though he had a wretched voyage, and was as sick as
any dog, he signalized the first moment of his arrival at the manse, by
strangling an ancient monkey, or "puggy," the pet of the minister,--who
was a bachelor,--and the wonder of the island. Jock henceforward took to
evil courses, extracting the kidneys of the best young rams, driving
whole hirsels down steep places into the sea, till at last all the guns
of Westray were pointed at him, as he stood at bay under a huge rock on
the shore, and blew him into space. I always regret his end, and blame
myself for sparing the rod. Of

DUCHIE

I have already spoken; her oddities were endless. We had and still have
a dear friend,--"Cousin Susan" she is called by many who are not her
cousins--a perfect lady, and, though hopelessly deaf, as gentle and
contented as was ever Griselda with the full use of her ears; quite as
great a pet, in a word, of us all as Duchie was of ours. One day we
found her mourning the death of a cat, a great playfellow of the
Sputchard's, and her small Grace was with us when we were condoling with
her, and we saw that she looked very wistfully at Duchie. I wrote on the
slate, "Would you like her?" and she through her tears said, "You know
that would never do