absences from home. Here is one written as I was convalescing from a
serious illness: "In my mind's eye I behold 'Mrs. Bouncer,' still with
some traces of anxiety on her faithful countenance, balancing herself a
little unequally on her forelegs, pricking up her ears with her head on
one side, and slightly opening her intellectual nostrils. I send my
loving and respectful duty to her." Again: "Think of my dreaming of
'Mrs. Bouncer,' each night!!!"

My father's love for dogs led him into a strange friendship during our
stay at Boulogne. There lived in a cottage on the street which led from
our house to the town, a cobbler who used to sit at his window working
all day with his dog--a Pomeranian--on the table beside him. The
cobbler, in whom my father became very much interested because of the
intelligence of his Pomeranian companion, was taken ill, and for many
months was unable to work. My father writes: "The cobbler has been ill
these many months. The little dog sits at the door so unhappy and
anxious to help that I every day expect to see him beginning a pair of
top boots." Another time father writes in telling the history of this
little animal: "A cobbler at Boulogne, who had the nicest of little dogs
that always sat in his sunny window watching him at his work, asked me if
I would bring the dog home as he couldn't afford to pay the tax for him.
The cobbler and the dog being both my particular friends I complied. The
cobbler parted with the dog heartbroken. When the dog got home here, my
man, like an idiot as he is, tied him up and then untied him. The moment
the gate was open, the dog (on the very day after his arrival) ran out.
Next day Georgy and I saw him lying all covered with mud, dead, outside
the neighbouring church. How am I ever to tell the cobbler? He is too
poor to come to England, so I feel that I must lie to him for life, and
say that the dog is fat and happy."

[Picture: Mrs. Bouncer]

Of horses and ponies we possessed but few during our childhood, and these
were not of very choice breed. I remember, however, one pretty pony
which was our delight, and dear old "Toby," the good sturdy horse which
for many years we used at "Gad's Hill." My father, however, was very
fond of horses, and I recall hearing him comment on the strange fact that
an animal "so noble in its qualities should be the cause of so much
villainy."

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