trackless forest, on the trail of the murderer, and there to fly at the
murderer when he found him resting at the foot of a tree, with his
victim bound ready for slaughter. It was a hot night, and he came into
the forest from an altogether unexpected direction, in the sweetest
temper, at a very deliberate trot, not in the least excited; trotted to
the foot-lights with his tongue out; and there sat down, panting, and
amiably surveying the audience, with his tail beating the boards, like a
Dutch clock. Meanwhile the murderer, impatient to receive his doom, was
audibly calling to him "Co-o-ome here!" while the victim, struggling
with his bonds, assailed him with the most injurious expressions. It
happened, through these means, that when he was in course of time
persuaded to trot up and rend the murderer limb from limb, he made it
(for dramatic purposes) a little too obvious that he worked out that
awful retribution by licking butter off his blood-stained hands.

In a shy street behind Long Acre, two honest dogs live who perform in
Punch's shows. I may venture to say that I am on terms of intimacy with
both, and that I never saw either guilty of the falsehood of failing to
look down at the man inside the show, during the whole performance. The
difficulty other dogs have in satisfying their minds about these dogs
appears to be never overcome by time. The same dogs must encounter them
over and over again, as they trudge along in their off-minutes behind
the legs of the show and beside the drum; but all dogs seem to suspect
their frills and jackets, and to sniff at them as if they thought those
articles of personal adornment an eruption--a something in the nature of
mange, perhaps. From this Covent-garden window of mine I noticed a
country dog only the other day, who had come up to Covent Garden Market
under a cart, and had broken his cord, an end of which he still trailed
along with him. He loitered about the corners of the four streets
commanded by my window; and bad London dogs came up and told him lies