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<h2> A DOG'S TALE </h2>
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<h2> CHAPTER I </h2>
<p>My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a
Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice
distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning nothing.
My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and see other
dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so much
education. But, indeed, it was not real education; it was only show: she
got the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room when there
was company, and by going with the children to Sunday-school and listening
there; and whenever she heard a large word she said it over to herself
many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a dogmatic
gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off, and surprise and
distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff, which rewarded her for all
her trouble. If there was a stranger he was nearly sure to be suspicious,
and when he got his breath again he would ask her what it meant. And she
always told him. He was never expecting this but thought he would catch
her; so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed, whereas he
had thought it was going to be she. The others were always waiting for
this, and glad of it and proud of her, for they knew what was going to
happen, because they had had experience. When she told the meaning of a
big word they were all so taken up with admiration that it never occurred
to any dog to doubt if it was the right one; and that was natural,
because, for one thing, she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a
dictionary speaking, and for another thing, where could they find out
whether it was right or not? for she was the only cultivated dog there
was. By and by, when I was older, she brought home the word
Unintellectual, one time, and worked it pretty hard all the week at
different gatherings, making much unhappiness and despondency; and it was
at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the
meaning at eight different assemblages, and flashed out a fresh definition
every time, which showed me that she had more presence of mind than
culture, though I said nothing, of course. She had one word which she
always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver, a kind of emergency
word to strap on when she was likely to get washed overboard in a sudden
way—that was the word Synonymous. When she happened to fetch out a
long word which had had its day weeks before and its prepared meanings
gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger there of course it knocked
him groggy for a couple of minutes, then he would come to, and by that
time she would be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting
anything; so when he'd hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on the
inside of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment—but only
just a moment—then it would belly out taut and full, and she would
say, as calm as a summer's day, "It's synonymous with supererogation," or
some godless long reptile of a word like that, and go placidly about and
skim away on the next tack, perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave
that stranger looking profane and embarrassed, and the initiated slatting
the floor with their tails in unison and their faces transfigured with a
holy joy.</p>
<p>And it was the same with phrases. She would drag home a whole phrase, if
it had a grand sound, and play it six nights and two matinees, and explain
it a new way every time—which she had to, for all she cared for was
the phrase; she wasn't interested in what it meant, and knew those dogs
hadn't wit enough to catch her, anyway. Yes, she was a daisy! She got so
she wasn't afraid of anything, she had such confidence in the ignorance of
those creatures. She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family
and the dinner-guests laugh and shout over; and as a rule she got the nub
of one chestnut hitched onto another chestnut, where, of course, it didn't
fit and hadn't any point; and when she delivered the nub she fell over and
rolled on the floor and laughed and barked in the most insane way, while I
could see that she was wondering to herself why it didn't seem as funny as
it did when she first heard it. But no harm was done; the others rolled
and barked too, privately ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point,
and never suspecting that the fault was not with them and there wasn't any
to see.</p>
<p>You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and frivolous
character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up, I think. She had
a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored resentments for injuries
done her, but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them; and she
taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned also to be
brave and prompt in time of danger, and not to run away, but face the
peril that threatened friend or stranger, and help him the best we could
without stopping to think what the cost might be to us. And she taught us
not by words only, but by example, and that is the best way and the surest
and the most lasting. Why, the brave things she did, the splendid things!
she was just a soldier; and so modest about it—well, you couldn't
help admiring her, and you couldn't help imitating her; not even a King
Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society. So, as
you see, there was more to her than her education.</p>
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