The truth is, Warlock was one of Scotland's own dogs, and these you know, are as hardy as the hills.

It was concerning this same doggie, Warlock, that the author once wrote the following lines. They were in answer to a Highland friend, who enquired through the medium of a well-known journal, if he knew the Aberdeen terrier. The verses are truly descriptive of this brave breed of dog, whether they possess any other merit or not is very little matter.

Warlock.

I ken the Terrier o' the North, I ken the towsy tyke; Ye'll search frae Tweed to Suss.e.x sh.o.r.e, But never find his like.

For pluck and pith, and jaws and teeth, And hair like heather cowes [stems]; Wi' body lang and low, and strang, At hame on cairns [heaps of stone and rubbish] and knowes.

He'll face a foumart [polecat], draw a brock [badger], Kill rats and whitterits [weasels] by the score; He'll bang tod-lowrie [the fox] frae his hole, Or fight him at his door.

He'll range for days and ne'er be tired, O'er mountain, moor, or fell; Fair-play, I think, the dear wee chap Would fecht the deil himsel'.

And yet beneath his rugged coat, A heart beats warm and true; He'll help to herd the sheep and kye, And mind the lammies [young lambs] too.

Then see him at the ingle side, Wi' bairnies round him laughin'; Was ever dog sae pleased as he, Sae fond o' fun and daffin? [Joking]

But gie's your han', my Hielan man, In troth! we manna sever; Then here's to Scotia's best o' dogs, Our towsy [rough and unkempt in coat] tyke for ever.

On this particular evening Warlock's boots were somewhat muddy. Tabby's had also been the same, though she had taken pains to clean them before coming to the fireside. The muddiness of their boots, however, only pointed to the fact that the two friends had enjoyed a rare day's sport in the woods, or by the water's side.

Well, said Shireen, as to the wind, I do not dislike hearing it, when I am indoors, nor hearing the rain rattling against the window panes either. I always think the fire burns brighter on a night like this.

Besides, the howling and howthering of the storm carries my thoughts back to the golden days of my youth, and to the events of my life at sea.

Shireen paused for a moment with one snow-white paw raised thoughtfully in the air.

"Warlock," she said, next minute, "what do you see in the fire?"

"Me?" said Warlock, rousing himself out of his reverie.

"Me, Shireen? Oh, I see a water-rat's hole down under the banks of a dark brown stream, and I can see the water rats pop in and out. There, look, I see one now standing on end at the other side of the bank, rubbing the water out of his eyes with the back of his knuckles, the better to look over at me and Tabby."

"What do you see, Mother Shireen?" said Vee-Vee.

I see a ship, my son, tossing hither and thither on the far-off Indian Ocean. I see the waves breaking in snowy spray, high, high against her jet-black sides. I see the racing waves curling their angry crests as they roll on towards the rugged horizon. I see dark storm clouds sweeping swift across the sky, with rifts of blue between, through which pours now and then a glint of sunshine.

"Mother Shireen, you were on that ship?" said Tabby, "tell us."

Yes, Tabby, I was on that ship. And dear master too. Last evening I told you how my sweet little mistress Beebee, had given me away to the wounded officer before she bade him adieu.

I was vexed to lose her. I would, I thought, never, never see my old home again; never more lie on summer evenings on the turret balcony, watching with Beebee the sunlight and shade chasing each other across the dreamy woods, and the birds wheeling far beneath us in giddy flight.

When Beebee had really gone, I scarce could believe that we were parted. I could not realise my loss at first. I went to the door and mewed, I jumped up into the window-sill, and examined the fastening of the jalousies.

"Shireen, come to me. Come, puss, come."

I looked quickly around, and my eyes fell on the face of the soldier Edgar.

He looked wan and worn and old. Though but little more than six-and-twenty, and that is young for a man, he appeared to me in his grief and loneliness to be about sixty.

My heart went out to him at once. Oh, Tabby, I do believe that if human beings would only bear in mind, how sickness or helplessness in one of their race appeals to us poor cats, and how we love the feeble, the ill, and the old, as well as dear children, they would often be kinder to us.

But this is a digression.

I jumped down from the window, and with a fond cry leapt up on the couch where soldier Edgar lay.

I was singing now.

I have often observed that the song of a cat seems to soothe a human being's soul and calm his nerves, continued Shireen. Well, I had a duty to perform to this poor sick soldier, and I was determined to do it.

What is duty, did you ask, Warlock? Well, it is a word I have borrowed from the human race. It means the doing of that which you have been told off to do, and that it is your business to do. Strangely enough human beings usually want to be preached at before they can tackle their duty--if I may be excused for talking sailor fashion--while we cats and dogs, yes, and birds, d.i.c.k, feel impelled to duty by our own instincts only. But I had already become fond of soldier Edgar, because I knew my mistress liked him.

"Shireen," he said, smoothing me but smiling, "you must not mourn too much for your mistress. She is not gone quite away, because she dwells here in my heart, Shireen. So we will often think of her together. I will love you for her sake, and you will love me for her sake. That is mutuality, p.u.s.s.y, so there! Now sit by me and sing, and I will sleep and awake calm and refreshed. I want to get better soon now, Shireen, because I intend coming back here again if possible, and take Beebee your mistress away. I want to save her from a fearful doom."

I hardly know how the time pa.s.sed after this for a month, during which time new master and I lived in the house of the priest.

But by this time master was strong and well again. Then came the day of parting.

The priest rode with us a very long way through the forest, and told us which way was the nearest to the city. Then we said--Farewell.

But the priest's last words as he held Edgar's hand were these: "If it be in my power to prevent it, my friend, depend upon it Beebee shall never enter the palace of the Shah!"

"May Heaven bless you," said the soldier. He said no more. I do not think he could have done so had he tried, for tears seemed to rise and choke him.

Well, the next thing I distinctly remember, is being taken on board a man-o'-war ship from a boat that left the Apollo Bunder at Bombay.

I had one regret just then, for my thoughts reverted to Beebee in her turret chamber. I imagined her sitting there all alone with Miss Morgan, and gazing dreamily over the sea, the sea she so longed to float upon.

But once on board the ship I had little time to think very much, at first at all events. Everything was very new and very strange to me; and it would take me some time to get up to the ropes, you know, Warlock.

"Oh!" said Warlock, "we dogs don't bother about ropes. When we come to a new home or house we just settle down there. All we want to know is where the door is."

Ah! Warlock, yes, that I know is true. But think how different a dog's life is from that of a poor cat. We cats have got to be wise, Warlock, and we've got to be wily, for though we have not got the brand of Cain upon our brows, still almost everybody who meets us wants to kill us.

It was on this very subject that only last Sunday I was conversing with the parson's big tom-cat.

"I'm so much used to travelling now, Tom," I said, "having had a spell of over twenty years of it, that I don't mind where I go; but if I were not a travelling cat I should feel very much from home in a new house, not knowing the outs and ins of it, the upstairs and the down, and where to get food, where to watch for mice, and the drains to run into when the school children come past; or the trees to run up when the butcher's dog comes round the corner."

"Well, for many reasons," said Tom in answer, "I like dogs well enough.

But I wouldn't like to be a dog, mind you, Shireen. Now look at me for example. I am the parson's cat to be sure, and being a parson's cat people might think I was under some restrictions. Not a bit of it, Shireen. I'm my own master.

"Now, look for example, at the Saint Bernard dog Dumpling--an honest contented great fellow he is--but bless you, Shireen, he isn't free.

But I am. Dumpling can't do what he pleases--I can. I can go to bed when I like, rise when I like, and eat and drink when, where, and what I choose. Dumpling _can't_. Really, Shireen, my old friend, I can forgive Dumpling for chasing me into the apple tree last Sunday, when I think of the dull life a dog leads, and how few are his joys compared to mine. Poor Dumpling needs the servants to wait upon him. He can't walk a couple of miles by himself and be sure of finding his way back, or sure of not getting into a row, getting stolen, or some other accident equally ridiculous.

"The other day, Shireen, if you'll take my word for it, Dumpling actually sat on the doorstep for two hours in the pouring, pitiless rain till his great s.h.a.ggy coat was soaked to the skin, because, forsooth, he didn't know how to get the door opened. Would a cat have done that?

No, a cat would have walked politely up to the first kind-faced pa.s.senger that came along and asked him to be good enough to ring the bell, and the thing would have been done. Could Dumpling unlatch a door or catch a mouse? Not to save his life. Could he climb a tree and examine a sparrow's nest? Not he. Could he find his way home over the tiles on a dark night? A pretty figure he would cut if he were only going to try. No, Shireen, dogs have their uses, but they're not in the same standard with cats."

Well, Warlock, mind these are Tom's views and not mine: but as I was telling you all, I found myself safe on board the _Venom_ at last, and that same afternoon we sailed away to the south.