d one's fore-legs had not so annoying a
trick of doubling up; and then---- What was that rascally fawn pup
rushing for? The Mistress, with the four little dishes and the big
basin? Another meal? Here goes! Bother! I should certainly have
reached her first, if I hadn't turned that somersault over the fawn
pup!

That was how it seemed to Finn, whose life was one long, happy play
and swagger at this time. But there were moments of a kind of
seriousness, too, in which Finn had glimpses of real life. That
very night, or rather late afternoon, Finn discovered that he could
bark, more or less as grown-up dogs bark. True, his first, second,
and third barks proved too much for his unstable equilibrium, and
he rolled over on his side in emitting the noble sounds. But the
fourth time he leaned against the table-leg under the oak tree, and
on that occasion was able to stand proudly to observe the
paralysing effect of his performance upon the others of his family,
who sat round him on their podgy haunches in a respectfully wide
circle, and marvelled fearfully at his robust prowess. They had all
yapped before, but this deep, resonant bark--fully one in three had
no crack in it--this was an achievement indeed. After a while the
grey bitch pup came and tentatively chewed Finn's backbone, with a
vague idea that the sound came from there.

When Finn was escorted--prancing drunkenly--to the coach-house that
evening after his supper, the little sheep-dog within was just
finishing her supper. Finn conceived the notion of showing his
foster-mother what he could do, and accordingly swaggered
unsteadily into the coach-house, delivering loud barks as he
advanced, all up and down the scale. The little sheep-dog (less
than twice Finn's size now) raised her nose from the dish and
barked angrily in good earnest. Finn rolled forward and sniffed in
casual fashion at her dish. Whereupon the foster growled at him
quite ferociously, and shouldered the great whelp out of her way.
The Master, who was looking on, nodded his head once or twice
thoughtfully.

"Yes," he said, as Finn sidled off to the bed rather crestfallen,
"I think you may take that as your notice to quit, my son; that's
weaning. You've been a good deal on your own lately, you know.
Well, I had meant this for your last night as a baby, anyhow. But
as it is--there, there, little shepherd, you've been a dear, good
little mother, haven't you? Six weeks now; and, as you say, he is a
great