ts regularly, and he always got on the geranium-bed when he
felt them coming on; and consequently, we did not enjoy our flowers
as much as we hoped to. The cherries were ripe during the reign of
Butterwick's dog, but they rotted on the trees, all but a few, which
were picked by Smith's boy, who subsequently went over the fence in a
sensational manner without stopping to ascertain what Butterwick's dog
was going to do with the mouthful of drawers and corduroy trousers
that he had removed from Smith's boy's leg. As Butterwick did not come
up, the dog enjoyed himself roaming about the yard a while; but one
day, finding the back window in the parlor open, he jumped in and
assumed control of that apartment and the hall. I tried to dislodge
him with a clothes-prop, but I only succeeded in knocking two costly
vases off of the mantel-piece, and the dog became so excited and
threatening that I shut the door hurriedly and went up stairs four
steps at a time.

[Illustration: SMITH'S BOY RETREATS]

There was nothing to interest him especially in the parlor, and
I cannot imagine why he wanted to stay there. But he did; and as
Butterwick didn't come up, we couldn't dislodge him. On Thursday he
smashed the mirror during an attempt to get up a fight with another
dog that he thought he saw in there, and he clawed the sofa to rags.
On Saturday he had a fit in the hall, and spoiled about eight square
yards of Brussels carpet utterly. When he recovered, he went back into
the parlor. At last I borrowed Coffin's dog and sent him in to fight
Butterwick's dog out. It was an exhilarating contest. They fought on
the chairs and sofas; they upset a table and smashed all the ornaments
on it; they scattered blood and hair in blotches all over the carpet;
they got entangled in one of the lace curtains and dragged it and the
frame down with a crash; they scratched and bit and tore and frothed
and yelled; and at last Coffin's dog gave in, put his tail between
his legs and retreated, while Butterwick's dog got on a sixty-dollar
Turkish rug, so that he could bleed comfortably.

It didn't seem to occur to him to go home, and still Butterwick didn't
come up. The next day I loaded a shot-gun and determined to kill him
at any sacrifice. I aimed carefully at him, but at the critical moment
he dodged, and two handfuls of bird-shot went into the piano and tore
it up badly. Then I tossed some poisoned meat' at him, but he ate all
around the poison, and seemed