It was not long before the dog
proposition was sprung upon me; insidiously at first, until I had half
committed myself, and then with such force and sweep as to take me off
my prudent feet. My own faithful terrier, which had dogged my heels for
three years, seemed a member of the family, and reasonably satisfied my
dog needs. That Jane should wish a terrier of some sort to tug at her
skirts and claw her lace was no more than natural, and I was quite
willing to buy a blue blood and think nothing of the $20 or $30 which it
might cost. We canvassed the list of terriers,--bull, Boston, fox,
Irish, Skye, Scotch, Airedale, and all,--and had much to say in favor of
each. One day Jane said:--
"Dad, what do you think of the Russian wolf-hound?"
"Fine as silk," said I, not seeing the trap; "the handsomest dog that
runs."
"I think so, too. I saw some beauties in the Seabright kennels. Wouldn't
one of them look fine on the lawn?--lemon and white, and so tall and
silky. I saw one down there, and he wasn't a year old, but his tail
looked like a great white ostrich feather, and it touched the ground.
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