ith fixed considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case."

Suddenly he caught sight of Gyp trying with guilty haste to get a long
object, balanced in his jaws, through a favorite hole in his backyard
fence. It was never done, for Sigurd was upon him in a twinkling, had
shaken him thoroughly and brought back the parasol essentially
unharmed. Several times again he recovered our goods and chattels,
invariably giving the culprit a vigorous shaking, but otherwise keeping
on neighborly terms with the little scamp, till life ended for Gyp in a
kick from his drunken master's boot.

With another neighbor, black Rod, a noble St. Bernard, the initial
friendship was soon broken. The two dogs were of about the same age and
had many a frisk together that first summer, but when Rod tried to join
us on our walks, Joy-of-Life, who thought one big puppy enough for
amateurs to handle, would sternly bid Rod, "Go home." Sigurd would
promptly spring to enforce the command, and Rod would slowly and
sulkily retreat. After a few of these experiences, Rod ceased to follow
us, but he never forgave any one of the three. Thenceforth for the rest
of their lives the two dogs, who knew themselves almost equally matched
in size and strength, passed each other, often a dozen times a day,
with bristling backs and low, cautious growls, while never could my
friendliest greetings, even when I was alone, win the least wiggle of a
wag from Rod's rigid, remembering tail. He was so fortunate as to live
in a household of children, for whom he made the most faithful of
protectors, and often, on a sparkling winter day, I have met him
coasting with them, racing down the hill abreast of the sled, tail
waving, eyes gleaming, but the instant he became aware of my obnoxious
presence and observation, the tail would stiffen and the eyes would
cloud. His hostility was a genuine hurt to me, so much did I like and
respect the dog, but even in his old age, when pain and weakness lay
heavy on him, and the children--did he understand?--were teasing their
mother to have him chloroformed so that they might have in his place a
stylish young Boston bull, he would accept from me no comfort of touch
or tone. Another unhappy result of these early rebuffs was that Sigurd
got it firmly fixed in his yellow noddle that the words _Go home_ were
the profanest of curses, and whenever he was so addressed, especially
by one of us, his aspect of grief