y eat. He spread his legs apart to
steady himself, and gobbled at his food like a duck. When he finished he
always looked up for more, and Miss Laura would shake her head and say:
"No, Billy: better longing than loathing. I believe that a great many
little dogs are killed by overfeeding."

I often heard the Morrises speak of the foolish way in which some people
stuffed their pets with food, and either kill them by it or keep them
in continual ill health. A case occurred in our neighborhood while Billy
was a puppy. Some people, called Dobson, who lived only a few doors from
the Morrises, had a fine bay mare and a little colt called Sam. They
were very proud of this colt, and Mr. Dobson had promised it to his son
James. One day Mr. Dobson asked Mr. Morris to come in and see the colt,
and I went, too. I watched Mr. Morris while he examined it. It was a
pretty little creature, and I did not wonder that they thought so much
of it.

When Mr. Morris went home his wife asked him what he thought of it.

"I think," he said, "that it won't live long."

"Why, papa!" exclaimed Jack, who overheard the remark, "it is as fat as
a seal."

"It would have a better chance for its life if it were lean and
scrawny," said Mr. Morris. "They are over-feeding it, and I told Mr.
Dobson so; but he wasn't inclined to believe me."

Now, Mr. Morris had been brought up in the country, and knew a great
deal about animals, so I was inclined to think he was right. And sure
enough, in a few days, we heard that the colt was dead.

Poor James Dobson felt very badly. A number of the neighbors' boys went
into see him, and there he stood gazing at the dead colt, and looking as
if he wanted to cry. Jack was there and I was at his heels, and though
he said nothing for a time, I knew he was angry with the Dobsons for
sacrificing the colt's life. Presently he said, "You won't need to have
that colt stuffed now he's dead, Dobson."

"What do you mean? Why do you say that?" asked the boy, peevishly.

"Because you stuffed him while he was alive," said Jack, saucily.

Then we had to run for all we were worth, for the Dobson boy was after
us, and as he was a big fellow he would have whipped Jack soundly.

I must not forget to say that Billy was washed regularly once a
week with nice-smelling soaps and once a month with strong-smelling,
disagreeable, carbolic soap. He had his own towels and wash cloths, and
after being rubbed and scrubbed, he was rolled in a