I read, the other day, an account, taken from an English paper, of a
wonderful little dog, called Minos. He knows more arithmetic than many
children. At an exhibition given of him by his mistress, he picked out
from a set of numbered cards any figure which the company chose to call
for. When six was called, for instance, he would bring it; and then, if
some one said, "Tell him to add twelve to it."--"Add twelve, Minos,"
said his mistress. Minos looked at her, trotted over to the cards, and
brought the one with eighteen on it.

Only once was he puzzled. A gentleman in the audience called out, "Tell
him to give the half of twenty-seven." Poor Minos looked quite
bewildered for a moment; but he was not to be baffled so. He ran off,
and brought back the card with the figure on it. Was not that clever?

He has photographs of famous persons, all of which he knows by name, and
will bring any one of them when told to. He can spell too; for when a
French lady in the company wrote the word "_esprit_," and handed it to
him, he first looked at it very hard, and then brought the letters, one
by one, and placed them in the right order.

When Minos was born, he was very sickly and feeble; and his mother would
not take care of him, and even tried to kill him. But little Marie
Slager, daughter of the lady who has him now, took him and brought him
up herself.

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From that time he was her doll, her playfellow, her baby. She treated
him so much like a child, that he really seemed to understand all that