other sheet, written in his son's boyish hand, beneath the name of
Andrew Moore the same date and the same legend.

From that day James Moore, then but a boy, was master of
Kenmuir.

So past Grip and Rex and Rally, and a hundred others, until at the
foot of the page you come to that last name--Bob, son of Battle.

From the very first the young dog took t& his work in a manner to
amaze even James Moore. For a while he watched his mother,
Meg, at her business, and with that seemed to have mastered the
essentials of sheep tactics.

Rarely had such fiery ‚lan been seen on the sides of the Pike; and
with it the young dog combined a strange sobriety, an admirable
patience, that justified, indeed, the epithet. "Owd." Silent he
worked, and resolute; and even in those days had that famous trick
of coaxing the sheep to do his wishes;--blending, in short, as
Tammas put it, the brains of a man with the way of a woman.

Parson Leggy, who was reckoned the best judge of a sheep or
sheep-dog 'twixt Tyne and Tweed, summed him up in the one
word "Genius." And James Moore himself, cautious man, was
more than pleased.

In the village, the Dalesmen, who took a personal pride in the Gray
Dogs of Kenmuir, began to nod sage heads when "oor" Bob was
mentioned. Jim Mason, the postman, whose word went as far with
the villagers as Parson Leggy's with the gentry, reckoned he'd