"Trump," a Dandie Dinmont, a very charming dog with a delightful
disposition, and perfectly honest until my elder daughter acquired a
fox terrier, "Chips," well-bred but highly nervous. Chips was a born
sportsman and most useful so long as he confined his activities to
rats and was busy when the thrashing-machine was at work, but when he
took to corrupting Trump's morals he required watching. Trump would be
lying quietly in the house or garden as good as possible, when the
insinuating tempter would find him, whisper a few words in his ear,
and off they went together. It was plainly an invitation, and later a
dead duckling or chicken would show where they had spent their time.
Trump became as bad as Chips and had to be given away. Chips was very
sensitive to discordant sounds, he must have had a musical ear; his
chief aversion was the sound of a gong, the beater for which was too
hard and, unless very carefully manipulated, produced a jangle. My
hall was paved with hexagonal stone sections called "quarries," which
appeared to intensify the discordance. Chips felt it keenly, and would
stand quite rigid for some minutes until the last reverberation and
its effect had passed off. He was uncertain in temper and disliked
some of the villagers. An old man complained that he had been bitten,
and told me with great feeling, "Folks say that if ever the dog goes
mad, I shall go mad too." I had much difficulty in appeasing him and
assuring him that there was no truth in the statement.

How shall I do justice to the infinite variety of "Wendy," the dainty
little Chinese princess who now rules my household? There are people
who cannot see in an old Worcester tea-cup and saucer the
eighteenth-century beauty, fastidiously sipping, what she called in
the same language as the Aldington cottager of to-day, her dish of
"tay." There are people who regard with indifference an ancient chair,
except as an object to be sat upon, and who fail to realize its