He'd the trick o' hounds and horses to a marvel--and no error;
And to hear him draw a woodland was a pride and a delight;
And--_was it luck entirely, Sir, I killed my fox to-night?_"

* * * * *

THE LITTLE WONDER.

The crowd had gone, the lights had been extinguished, and the doors
of the music-hall were shut. The Little Wonder was tired after the
performance; his attempt to do the double somersault had strained him,
and his failure had brought a whipping. Although the outhouse in which
he was to lie was cold and damp and smelt horribly, he was glad when
his master thrust him into it, and he was content to lie down in the
straw and forget his misery in sleep.

He dreamt a beautiful dream. He dreamt that he was a master, and
that he was presenting to a crowded audience what he had billed as
"A Marvel of the Twentieth Century"--a performing man. The man was a
creature with a pink face, oily hair, and a black moustache; and the
Little Wonder, in his capacity as master, made the Marvel bark like
a dog, whereat the audience yelped its approval. Then the collar of
a member of the audience was handed on to the stage, while the Marvel
was blindfolded, and, after sniffing the collar, he succeeded in
tracking down its owner--like a dog again. And in whatever trick
the Marvel did, the Little Wonder was close behind him, looking so
friendly and threatening him with low growls at the same time. If the
Marvel happened to remember for a moment his miserable condition and
to look unhappy, his master would look still more kindly and threaten
even more sternly. Then came the moment when the orchestra stopped