fear, and seeming to say, "Pray, pray do not hurt me! I am ready to do
what you wish, and to lay down my life for you; but you are going to
beat or to kick me, and I am a poor creature, without any one to take my
part. I _could_ bite you, I _could_ seize you by the throat, or tear the
flesh off your leg, but I will not do so. I come because you call me;
pray do not hurt me!" And I have seen the meek, obedient creature
struck, and put to cruel pain, without the smallest reason in the world.
And when I recollected the words of the Bible, "Verily there is a God
that judgeth in the earth," I have grieved the more to think what
punishment that cruel man or boy was bringing on himself.

If we call one of our dogs, even when at high play in the fields, he
instantly comes bounding up, puts his head on one side, pricks up his
ears, and looks full in our faces as if saying, "Well, here I am; what
do you want me to do?" A beating is the last thing that they would think
of. I am not now speaking of Bronti and Fiddy in particular, but all the
dogs that ever I had. The reason is, that the dog is the very fondest
creature that breathes; and any but a really ill-tempered dog may be
managed by means of this fondness; while, as I before remarked, a really
bad-tempered one should not be kept to be punished, but speedily
destroyed.

You know what a terrible thing the bite of a mad dog is. The wound may
be so small as hardly to leave a scar, and it may heal, and be
forgotten, perhaps for weeks and months; still, the deadly poison is in
the person's blood, and when it breaks out, a most fearful death
follows, after such sufferings as nobody, who has not seen them, can
have an idea of. But, perhaps, you do not know that the angry bite of a
dog, when teased or hurt, has often produced the same awful madness. I
remember a neighbour's son dying most horribly of it, who had only had