ight
tendency to run away. He is regularly lost four or five times every
winter, and has been oftener cried through the streets of Belford, and
advertised in the county newspapers, than comports with a dog of his
dignity. Now, these mischances clearly belong to that class of accidents
commonly called casualties, and are quite unconnected with any infirmity
of temperament on my part I cannot help Pearl's proficiency in jumping,
nor Dash's propensity to wander through the country; neither had I any
hand in the loss which has given its title to this paper, and which,
after so much previous dallying, I am at length about to narrate.

The autumn before last, that is to say, above a year ago, the boast and
glory of my little garden was a dahlia called the Phoebus. How it came
there, nobody very distinctly knew, nor where it came from, nor how we
came by it, nor how it came by its own most appropriate name. Neither
the lad who tends our flowers, nor my father, the person chiefly
concerned in procuring them, nor I myself, who more even than my father
or John take delight and pride in their beauty, could recollect who gave
us this most splendid plant, or who first instructed us as to the style
and title by which it was known. Certes never was blossom fitlier
named. Regular as the sun's face in an almanack, it had a tint of
golden scarlet, of ruddy yellow, which realised Shakspeare's gorgeous
expression of "flame-coloured." The sky at sunset sometimes puts on
such a hue, or a fire at Christmas when it burns red as well as bright.
The blossom was dazzling to look upon. It seemed as if there were light
in the leaves, like that coloured-lamp of a flower, the Oriental Poppy.
Phoebus was not too glorious a name for that dahlia. The Golden-haired
Apollo might be proud of such an emblem. It was worthy of the god of
day; a very Phoenix of floral beauty.

Every dahlia fancier who came into our garden or who had an opportunity
of seeing a bloom elsewhere; and, sooth to say, we were rather
ostentatious in our display; John put it into stands, and jars,
and baskets, and dishes; Dick stuck it into Dash's collar, his own
button-hole, and Pearl's bridle; my father presented it to such lady
visiters as he delighted to honour; and I, who have the habit of
dangling a flower, generally a sweet one, caught myself more than once
rejecting the spicy clove and the starry jessamine, the blossomed myrtle
and the tuberose, my old fragrant favourites, for