Lad A Dog Quotes

Any man with money to make the purchase may become a dog's owner. But no man --spend he ever so much coin and food and tact in the effort-- may become a dog's Master without consent of the dog. Do you get the difference? And he whom a dog once unreservedly accepts as Master is forever that dog's God.

Well, he is her brother, lad," Gibsie offered. "He was obviously going to come back for her." "I don’t give a shite," I snapped, thinking about her bruised face. "I didn’t want her to leave, Gibs, and he just took her away from me. And I let him!" "You do know that you're not allowed to keep humans as pets, don’t you?" he asked in a wry tone. "You know that's just dogs and cats, right?

Goggie!” she exclaimed, holding both hands out urgently to Lad, who’d been dozing by the fire. “By all means,” Michael replied amicably, as if he and Mary were having a conversation. “Let’s bring the mutt with us, as well. He’s almost presentable now that he stinks o’ roses.

Tequila again?” Feely glared at Gibsie. “Really?” “Listen, I’m not going to sit here and apologize for something that happened a million years ago,” Gibsie huffed. “I puked on your dog. Feely. It was a genuine mistake. I’ve done it to Sookie a million times and you don’t see her giving me the cold shoulder. And I haven’t done it since, so can we please move past it?” “I don't have a dog – that was my mother you puked on!” Feely snapped, sounding outraged. “And it was last Christmas, not a million years ago, asshole.” “What?” Gibsie frowned. “That's was your Mam?” “Yes, asshole!” “Ah, lad, I’m so fucking sorry,” Gibsie strangled out, slapping a hand across his mouth. “I thought she was a dog.

She swallowed, watching as the servants and Harry and Bert trooped out of the room. Lad, apparently not the brightest dog in the world, sat down next to Mickey O’Connor and leaned against his leg. Mr. O’Connor looked at the dog, looked at the damp spot growing on his breeches where the dog was leaning, and sighed. “I find me life is not as quiet as it used to be afore ye came to me palace, Mrs. Hollingbrook.” Silence lifted her chin. “You’re a pirate, Mr. O’Connor. I cannot believe your life was ever very quiet.” He gave her an ironic look. “Aye, amazin’, isn’t it? Yet since yer arrival me servants no longer obey me and I return home to find me kitchen flooded.” He crossed to a cupboard and took down a china teapot, a tin of tea, and a teacup. “And me dog smells like a whorehouse.” Silence glanced guiltily at Lad. “The only soap we could find was rose scented.

What,” Mick said softly, “is Lad doin’ in me bed?” Hearing his name, Lad opened small, piggish, upside-down eyes, gazing with idiotic adoration as his whip-thin tail thumped the covers. “Ah.” Harry scratched behind one ear. “Well, see, ’e was lookin’ so forlorn, like, out in the courtyard by ’imself. Seemed an awful shame to leave ’im there all alone.” “Off!” Mick roared at the dog. Lad’s transformation was instantaneous. His tiny triangle ears folded back, his eyes narrowed worriedly, and he rolled so that he could crawl toward the edge of the bed on his belly. “Is that mud on his paws?” Mick asked in outrage. Harry glanced at the dog. “I do believe it is,” he said as if making a discovery. “Christ!” Mick watched disgustedly as Lad made the edge of the bed and slithered off, thumping to the floor. The dog seemed to think that his apology was done—or perhaps he’d already forgotten that Mick was mad at him—for he gamboled over as frisky as a lamb. “He’s not even me dog,” Mick muttered. Lad sat, one back leg sprawled out to the side, tongue hanging from his mouth, and grinned up at him. He completely ignored Harry, his supposed master. “The dog ’as a wonderful affection for ye,” Harry said brightly.

But I'm afraid it can't be done." "Certainly not; it can't be done," repeated the Humbug. "Why not?" asked Milo. "Why not indeed?" exclaimed the bug, who seemed equally at home on either side of an argument. "Much too difficult," replied the king. "Of course," emphasized the bug, "much too difficult." "You could if you really wanted to," insisted Milo. "By all means, if you really wanted to, you could," the Humbug agreed. "How?" asked Azaz, glaring at the bug. "How?" inquired Milo, looking the same way. "A simple task," began the Humbug, suddenly wishing he were somewhere else, "for a brave lad with a stout heart, a steadfast dog, and a serviceable small automobile.

Rain falling on water… Ah, yes…When he was a little lad he’d pretended that the raindrops splashing in the running gutters were soldiers. Millions of soldiers. And the bubbles that sometimes went floating by were men on horseback. Right now he couldn’t remember what the occasional dead dog had been. Some kind of siege weapon, possibly.

Hushlanders, I’d like to take this opportunity to commend you for reading this book. I realize the difficulty you must have gone through to obtain it – after all, no Librarian is likely to recommend it, considering the secrets it exposes about their kind. Actually, my experience has been that people generally don’t recommend this kind of book at all. It is far too interesting. Perhaps you have had other kinds of books recommended to you. Perhaps, even, you have been given books by friends, parents, or teachers, then told that these books are the type you “have to read.” Those books are invariably described as “important” – which, in my experience, pretty much means that they’re boring. (Words like meaningful and thoughtful are other good clues.) If there is a boy in these kinds of books, he will not go on an adventure to fight against Librarians, paper monsters, and one-eyed Dark Oculators. In fact, the lad will not go on an adventure or fight against anything at all. Instead, his dog will die. Or, in some cases, his mother will die. If it’s a really meaningful book, both his dog and his mother will die. (Apparently, most writers have something against dogs and mothers.)

I knew it!" he cried, jubilant. "I thought 'twas you, but there's more of you now. You should've seen the likes of her, boys," he said, turning towards the other convicts as he pointed at Kel. "We was all outlaws, livin' on the edges, and this bunch of pages stumbled into our camp. We chased 'em back in a canyon, and her -" he jabbed his finger at Kel - "she gutted ol' Breakbone Dell, and him the meanest dog-skinner you'd ever hope to meet. Stood there afoot, her and her spear, cool as meltwater with Breakbone ridin' down on her with that neck-cutter sword of his. First time she got 'im in the leg, second in the tripes, and he was done. Her and six lads held us all back, just them. There she was, eyes like stone and that bloody spear in her hand. Lady." He bowed deep. Kel looked at him, not sure what to say. Finally she asked, "What's your name, soldier?" "Me? Gilab Lofts - Gil. Lady. It's - it's good to see you well." He bowed again and returned to his seat, whispering with the men on either side of him. Kel waited for them to quiet once again before she said ruefully, "I'm not sure that being known for gutting a man is exactly a recommendation for a commander." "It is in the north!" cried someone. Several men laughed outright; others grinned.

så lad det være den største forbryder, han er dog et menneske som jeg; også han har været uskyldig! Hvem veed, hvor mange haarde kampe han kjæmpede, før han gjorde det første skridt til sin ulykke; lidt efter lidt gled han dybere, - pludselig bliver ingen en forbryder: det ere lidenskaber, opdragelse og en forunderlig sammenkjædning af omstændigheder, som danner vores livs malerie, - vi maa afskye forbryderens handlinger, men kan menneskeligheden dadles om den beklager ham? Hvem veed hvorledes vi havde handlet, om vi vare fødte i hans stilling, med hans lidenskaber og begreber?

Yes, he fights well," said Bulba, pausing; "well, by heavens!" he continued, rather as if excusing himself, "although he has never tried his hand at it before, he will make a good Cossack! Now, welcome, son! embrace me," and father and son began to kiss each other. "Good lad! see that you hit every one as you pommelled me; don't let any one escape. Nevertheless your clothes are ridiculous all the same. What rope is this hanging there?--And you, you lout, why are you standing there with your hands hanging beside you?" he added, turning to the youngest. "Why don't you fight me? you son of a dog!

Any man with money to make the purchase may become a dog’s owner. But no man—spend he ever so much coin and food and tact in the effort—may become a dog’s Master without the consent of the dog. Do you get the difference? And he whom a dog once unreservedly accepts as Master is forever that dog’s God.

Heads up lads!” someone shouted. “Here we go!” More missiles, this time not just bottles, but coins as well. And then from the other side of the cordon, a roar went up. Bellowing across the road toward them. Billy watched as the Manchester lads poured forward, desperately trying to force a way through the massed ranks of the police only to be driven back by batons and gloved fists. Another salvo of bottles came flying across, trying to provoke a reaction. But the West Ham lads merely stood and laughed. They didn’t need to respond. The point had been made, the result earned. Billy was happy. Very happy.

No one loves me,—no one cares for me, but you, mother.” He turned away and stood leaning his head against the mantelpiece, tears forcing themselves into his manly eyes. She stood up,—she tottered. For the first time in her life, the strong woman tottered. She put her hands on his shoulders; she was a tall woman. She looked into his face: she made him look at her. {166} “Mother’s love is given by God, John. It holds fast for ever and ever. A girl’s love is like a puff of smoke,—it changes with every wind. And she would not have you, my own lad, would not she?” She set her teeth; she showed them like a dog for the whole length of her mouth. He shook his head.

My lad," she said, "they're very wise. They know they've only got to flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its head scratched." "Well, they can't go on scratching for ever," he replied. "And when they've done, I trot away." "But one day you'll find a string round your neck, that you can't pull off," she answered.

Tequila again?” Feely glared at Gibsie. “Really?” “Listen, I’m not going to sit here and apologize for something that happened a million years ago,” Gibsie huffed. “I puked on your dog. Feely. It was a genuine mistake. I’ve done it to Sookie a million times and you don’t see her giving me the cold shoulder. And I haven’t done it since, so can we please move past it?” “I don't have a dog – that was my mother you puked on!” Feely snapped, sounding outraged. “And it was last Christmas, not a million years ago, asshole.” “What?” Gibsie frowned. “That’s was your Mam?” “Yes, asshole!” “Ah, lad, I’m so fucking sorry,” Gibsie strangled out, slapping a hand across his mouth. “I thought she was a dog.

He was Sunnybank Lad; eighty-pound collie; tawny and powerful; with absurdly tine white forepaws and with a Soul looking out from his deep-set dark eyes. Chum and housemate he was to two human gods; - a dog, alone of all worshipers, having the privilege of looking on the face of his gods and of communing with them without the medium of priest or of prayer.

Yet it is at this very age when, in his heart of hearts, a young lad most craves for recognition and love; and he becomes the devoted slave of any one who shows him consideration. But none dare openly love him, for that would be regarded as undue indulgence and therefore bad for the boy. So, what with scolding and chiding, he becomes very much like a stray dog that has lost his master.

Adam noticed Gyp’s mental conflict, and though his anger had made him less tender than usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as much as usual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the brutes that love us than to the women that love us. Is it because the brutes are dumb? “Go, Gyp; go, lad!” Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command; and Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one, followed Lisbeth into the house-place.

If you had let him alone, he’d have let you alone,” retorted Friend. “When you laid hands on him he got back at you. I don’t blame him. Any human would have done the same if he’d been mauled by a stranger he didn’t like. You can’t expect a dog to act more civilized than a human, can you? (Not so very much more civilized, anyhow.) And while we’re talking about it, I’ll ask you not to call the Big Dog a ‘cur’ any more. He’s a thoroughbred. And he’s more of a gentleman than ever you’ll be in a hundred years. Now get back to your work.

Ryder, open the door!” Branna asked politely. “No can do, sweets,” came Ryder's swift reply. “I'm only a man, I can't help finish packing with you seducing me.” “None of us can!” Alec shouted. “You all sunk to a new low, using our own cocks against us. You should be ashamed.” We should be ashamed? “You used our love for an innocent dog to get us outside! You said he ran out!” I snapped. Alec cackled. “That was your mistake.” “What was?” I growled. “Believing Storm would willingly run anywhere.” All the lads burst into laughter. “Bastards!” I yelled.

The dog was throttled off; his huge, purple tongue hanging half a foot out of his mouth, and his pendent lips streaming with bloody slaver.  The man took Cathy up; she was sick: not from fear, I’m certain, but from pain.  He carried her in; I followed, grumbling execrations and vengeance.  “What prey, Robert?” hallooed Linton from the entrance.  “Skulker has caught a little girl, sir,” he replied; “and there’s a lad here,” he added, making a clutch at me, “who looks an out-and-outer!  Very like the robbers were for putting them through the window to open the doors to the gang after all were asleep, that they might murder us at their ease.  Hold your tongue, you foul-

It was a feeling that I could be a little different from everyone else of my age, and that, if pushed, I could battle against the forces of nature and prevail. Adventure felt the most natural thing in the world, and it was where I came alive. It is what made me feel, for the first time, really myself. As I got older and the rest of my world got more complicated and unnatural, I sought more and more the identity and wholeness that adventure gave me. In short, when I was wet, muddy, and cold, I felt like a million dollars, and when I was with the lads, with everyone desperately trying to be “cool,” I felt more awkward and unsure of myself. I could do mud, but trying to be cool was never a success. So I learned to love the former and shy away from the latter. (Although I gave “cool” a brief, good go as a young teenager, buying winklepicker boots and listening to heavy metal records all through one long winter, both of which were wholly unsatisfying, and subsequently dropped as “boring.”) Instead, I would often dress up in my “worst” (aka my best) and dirtiest clothes, stand under the hosepipe in the garden, get soaking wet--in December--and then go off for a run on my own in the hills. The locals thought me a bit bonkers, but my dog loved it, and I loved it. It felt wild, and it was a feeling that captured me more and more. Once, I returned from one such run caked in mud and ran past a girl I quite fancied. I wondered if she might like the muddy look. It was at least original, I thought. Instead, she crossed the road very quickly, looking at me as if I were just weird. It took me a while to begin to learn that girls don’t always like people who are totally scruffy and covered in mud. And what I considered natural, raw, and wild didn’t necessarily equal sexy. Lesson still in progress.

No,’ she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. ‘My father was a scoundrel then? cried the lad, clenching his fists. She shook her head. ‘I knew he was not free. We loved each other very much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don’t speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed he was highly connected.’ An oath broke from his lips. ‘I don’t care for myself,’ he exclaimed, ‘but don’t let Sibyl… It is a gentleman, isn’t it, who is in love with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose?’ For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. ‘Sibyl has a mother,’ she murmured; ‘I had none.’ The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down he kissed her. ‘I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,’ he said, ‘but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don’t forget that you will only have one child how to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it.’ The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down, and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day.

There was a boy at our school. He was the most extraordinary lad I ever came across. I believe he really liked study. He used to get into awful rows for sitting up in bed and reading Greek; and as for French irregular verbs, there was simply no keeping him away from them. He was full of weird and unnatural notions about being a credit to his parents and an honour to the school; and he yearned to win prizes, and grow up and be a clever man, and had all those sort of weak-minded ideas. I never knew such a strange creature, yet harmless, mind you, as the babe unborn. Well, that boy used to get ill about twice a week, so that he couldn’t go to school. There never was such a boy to get ill. If there was any known disease going within ten miles of him, he had it, and had it badly. He would “take bronchitis in the dog-days, and have hayfever at Christmas. After a six weeks’ period of drought, he would be stricken down with rheumatic fever; and he would go out in a November fog and come home with a sunstroke. They put him under laughing-gas one year, poor lad, and drew all his teeth, and gave him a false set, because he suffered so terribly with toothache; and then it turned to neuralgia and ear-ache. He was never without a cold, except once for nine weeks while he had scarlet fever; and he always had chilblains. He had to stop in bed when he was ill, and eat chicken and custards and hot-house grapes; and he would lie there and sob, because they wouldn’t let him do Latin exercises, and took his German grammar away from him. And we other boys, who would have sacrificed ten terms of our school life for the sake of being ill for a day, and had no desire whatever to give our parents any excuse for being stuck-up about us, couldn’t catch so much as a stiff neck. We fooled about in draughts, and it did us good, and freshened us up; and we took things to make us sick, and they made us fat, and gave us an appetite. Nothing we could think of seemed to make us ill until the holidays began. Then, on the breaking-up day, we caught colds, and whooping cough, and all kinds of disorders, which lasted till the term recommenced; when, in spite of everything we could manoeuvre to the contrary, we would get suddenly well again, and be better than ever.

He felt it. Misery, we must insist, had been good to him. Poverty in youth, when it succeeds, is so far magnificent that it turns the whole will towards effort, and the whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty strips the material life entirely bare, and makes it hideous; thence arise inexpressible yearnings towards the ideal life. The rich young man has a hundred brilliant and coarse amusements, racing, hunting, dogs, cigars, gaming, feasting, and the rest; busying the lower portions of the soul at the expense of its higher and delicate portions. The poor young man must work for his bread; he eats; when he has eaten, he has nothing more but reverie. He goes free to the play which God gives; he beholds the sky, space, the stars, the flowers, the children, the humanity in which he suffers, the creation in which he shines. He looks at humanity so much that he sees the soul, he looks at creation so much that he sees God. He dreams, he feels that he is great; he dreams again, and he feels that he is tender. From the egotism of the suffering man, he passes to the compassion of the contemplating man. A wonderful feeling springs up within him, forgetfulness of self, and pity for all. In thinking of the numberless enjoyments which nature offers, gives, and gives lavishly to open souls, and refuses to closed souls, he, a millionaire of intelligence, comes to grieve for the millionaires of money. All hatred goes out of his heart in proportion as all light enters his mind. And then is he unhappy? No. The misery of a young man is never miserable. The first lad you meet, poor as he may be, with his health, his strength, his quick step, his shining eyes, his blood which circulates warmly, his black locks, his fresh cheeks, his rosy lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, will always be envied by an old emperor. And then every morning he sets about earning his bread; and while his hands are earning his living, his backbone is gaining firmness, his brain is gaining ideas. When his work is done, he returns to ineffable ecstasies, to contemplation, to joy; he sees his feet in difficulties, in obstacle, on the pavement, in thorns, sometimes in the mire; his head is in the light. He is firm, serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, benevolent; and he blesses God for having given him these two estates which many of the rich are without; labour which makes him free, and thought which makes him noble. This is what had taken place in Marius.

And so we rolled East, I more devastated than braced with the satisfaction of my passion, and she glowing with health, her bi-iliac garland still as brief as a lad’s, although she had added two inches to her stature and eight pounds to her weight. We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the nightevery night, every nightthe moment I feigned sleep.

What in Hades were you doing, lady? I almost hit you." Remington rose to confront him, but before he could say a word, Madeline came up like an infuriated wasp. "What was I doing? What were you doing? You almost hit this dog." Her cheeks and the tip of her nose glowed scarlet with fury. Her eyes sparked with brilliant blue. She had a smudge on one cheek and her hat was askew, but that didn't matter, for all the passion she had revealed in the morning's kiss she put into the defense of a mutt she had never before seen. Surly with guilt, the youth said, "It was just a flea-ridden stray." Then her loveliness registered. He jerked to attention, back straight, shoulders back. He stared with avid fascination into her face. "I believe we may have met, although I can't quite remember-" She rampaged on, "Is that the way you were taught? To run over defenseless animals?" Stepping back, Remington folded his arms. This youth didn't stand a chance. Her eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. I recognize you. You're Lord Mauger!" "Yes, I... I am. Viscount Mauger, humbly at your service." Whipping his hat from his head, the youth bowed, eager to make a belated good impression on the beauty before him. "And you are...?" She wasn't impressed or interested. "I know your mother, and she would box your ears for this." Dull red rose in Mauger's cheeks. "You won't tell her." "Not if you promise to be more careful in the future. I won't be around to rescue the next dog, and I remember what a fine lad you were. You love animals, and you'd feel guilty if you killed one." "You're... you're right." Mauger's pleading eyes looked much like the dog's. "I just bought the chestnut, and came into town, and I wanted to show him off, but that's no excuse..." As Mauger dug his toe into the dirt, Remington realized he was observing a master at work. She had taken the young man from fury, to infatuation, to guilt in one smooth journey, and Mauger adored her for it.

They are waiting for us again. My youngest lad and me. The crows around the floodlights. The dogs around the gates. They are waiting for us because we are late again. My youngest lad and me.

We certainly have had more than adequate funds in this family for a long time—even before we got Wal-Mart cranked up. Here’s the thing: money never has meant that much to me, not even in the sense of keeping score. If we had enough groceries, and a nice place to live, plenty of room to keep and feed my bird dogs, a place to hunt, a place to play tennis, and the means to get the lads good educations—that’s rich. No question about it. And we have it. We’re not crazy.

The lad raised himself with a low cry and clasped him close. “Let us lie down and die together,” he murmured. “men have no need for us, and we are all alone.

Tim, An Irish Terrier It's wonderful dogs they're breeding now: Small as a flea or large as a cow; But my old lad Tim he'll never be bet By any dog that he ever met, Come on 'says he'for I'm not kilt yet! No matter the size of the dog he'll meet, Tim trails his coat the length o'the street. D'ye mind his scar an'his ragged ear, The like of a Dublin Fusilier? He's a massacree dog that knows no fear. But he'd stick to me till his lastest breath; An'he'd go with me to the gates of death. He'd wait a thousand years,maybe, Scratching the door an'whining for me If myself were inside in Purgatory. So I laugh when I hear them make it plain That dogs and men never meet againj. For all their talk who'd listen to them With the soul in the shining eyes of him? Would God be wasting a dog like Tim? - Winifred M. Letts.

Here’s the thing: money never has meant that much to me, not even in the sense of keeping score. If we had enough groceries, and a nice place to live, plenty of room to keep and feed my bird dogs, a place to hunt, a place to play tennis, and the means to get the lads good educations—that’s rich. No question about

The Philadelphia Ledger, with a reporter on the scene, was more detailed.   Our men have been relentless; have killed to exterminate men, women, children, prisoners and captives, active insurgents and suspected people, from lads of ten and up, an idea prevailing was that the Filipino, as such, was little better than a dog... Our soldiers have pumped saltwater into men to "make them talk," have taken prisoner people who hold up their hands and peacefully surrendered, and an hour later, without an atom of evidence to show that they were even insurrectos, stood them on a bridge and shot them down one by one, to drop into the shallow water below and float down and serve as an example to those who found their bullet-riddled bodies.

Goliath could not tell for sure until the lad had reached to within fifty or so feet of him. He was puny. And he wore no armor. He was clad as a shepherd without his cloak. He had a shepherd’s staff and sling in his hand. He looked like a teenager. In fact, he was quite handsome and Goliath thought it would be a pleasure to sexually violate this stripling. But he was insulted by the challenge. He boiled with rage. He screamed out to his enemies on the hillside, “AM I A DOG THAT YOU COME TO ME WITH STICKS? I CURSE YOU BY DAGON, BA’ALZEBUL, MOLECH AND ASHERAH! YOU FILTHY HEBREW COWARDS!” Goliath turned to David and said, “Come to me, boy. I will give your flesh to the vultures and jackals. After I have my way with you!” David shouted to him, “You come with scimitar and javelin, but I come in the name of Yahweh of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have blasphemed! This day Yahweh will deliver you into my hand and I will smite you and cut off your head!” Goliath laughed with incredulity. And it is a puny pontificating pipsqueak no less. I wonder if the little rat is going to keep on talking. He did. “I will give your body to the vultures and jackals, and all the earth will know that there is a god in Israel whose name is Yahweh Elohim! And this assembly will know that Yahweh saves not with sword or spear! For the battle is Yahweh’s and he will give you into our hands!” Goliath muttered, “Sanctimonious little twat.

Would you like to hack out with me, Eve?” The smile disappeared. “I’m not dressed appropriately. Thank you for the invitation, nonetheless.” He hadn’t expected her to accept, though he had wanted to hear her reply. He shifted closer to her in the stall, close enough that he could stretch out a hand to his horse and not be overheard by the lads. “I’d put you up on Willy here. He’s gentle as a lamb under saddle.” “You’d let me ride your prize racing stud?” The longing in her voice was palpable. “I don’t think he’s going to hear, see, or obey anybody else when you’re in the vicinity. Willy’s in love.” The blighted beast nickered deep in its chest as if in agreement. “What a charming fellow.” Eve’s bare hand scratched right behind Willy’s ear, and if he’d been a dog, the stallion’s back leg would have twitched with pleasure. What was wrong with a man when he wanted to tell his horse: She petted me first, so don’t get any ideas? “I’d love to see you on him, Lucas. I’ll bet he has marvelous paces.” Now the smile was aimed at Deene, and even the horse seemed to be looking at him beseechingly. “I cannot disappoint a guest. We’ll have some luncheon up at the house, and the lads can saddle him up.” As Deene escorted the lady from the loose box, Willy managed to look crestfallen before he went back to desultorily lipping at his hay. “Some

Here’s the thing: money never has meant that much to me, not even in the sense of keeping score. If we had enough groceries, and a nice place to live, plenty of room to keep and feed my bird dogs, a place to hunt, a place to play tennis, and the means to get the lads good educations—that’s rich.

My dear Charles," he said, expansively.  "I wonder if I might ask a favor of you?" "What would you like?" "Nerissa and Amy wish to go to London, and I simply don't have time to accompany them.  You wouldn't mind going instead, just to ensure that they come to no harm, would you?" "What do they need to go to London for?" Lucien gave a dramatically heavy sigh.  "Oh, female pursuits, of course.  Shopping, gossip, maybe a visit to that infernal French dressmaker of Nerissa's.  You know how your sister just has to have the latest fashions from the Continent."  He raised his brows as Charles eyed him narrowly.  "But of course, if you don't feel . . . up to it, I suppose I could always send Andrew instead." "What do you mean, if I don't feel up to it?" "Oh, nothing.  I was just thinking about our little conversation last night.  The one where you made it quite obvious that you are no longer, shall we say, capable of the things you once were.  But never mind.  I'm sure that Andrew will be delighted to lend his protection to the girls, instead.  He has become quite a handsome young lad, don't you think?"  His black eyes gleamed.  "I do wonder what your little friend will think of him . . ."  He whistled for the dogs and raised his walking stick to Charles in mock salute.  "Good day, Charles.  I will see you at teatime, I hope." And then he moved off, leaving Charles staring after him in rising fury, his hands balled into fists and a little muscle ticking in his jaw. What the devil was that all about?! Well, one thing was for sure.  Andrew was not going to be the one escorting the girls into London! 

He left her up on the horse while he himself got down, putting her above him while he spoke. “You’re in a taking about something, princess. When you want to let somebody in on it, talk to me. For now, are you ready to coach me over fences?” “I am, but Caesar likes Vicar, so you might find him less willing to mind you.” “Everybody likes Vicar.” Hell, I even like Vicar. “I don’t. He seems nice, but he’s been kissing Miss Emmie, and that isn’t nice at all.” What? With admirable calm, St. Just merely tossed Winnie up onto the fence rail, resisting with saintly force of will the urge to turn the child into his spy. “I rather enjoy kissing,” he said, “certain ladies, that is.” He planted a loud kiss on Winnie’s cheek—“and some horses”—another one for Caesar’s nose—“but not dogs, old lad.” He blew a kiss to Scout, who looked—as he usually did—a little confused. “All right, you.” He plunked Winnie onto his shoulders as Stevens led the horse away forty-five minutes later. “Time for luncheon. What did you think of the rides today?” “You ride better than Vicar,” Winnie said with heartening loyalty, “but I don’t think Wulf and Red are right-hoofed, you know? They like to go this way”—she twirled a finger counterclockwise—“better than the other way.” “My heavens,” he exclaimed in genuine astonishment. “What a good eye you have. Have you told Vicar this?” “I don’t talk to him.” “I know. He kisses Miss Emmie.” Much as it pained him to—bitterly, piercingly—he went on. “You know, Miss Emmie might like kissing him, Winnie, in which case it is none of our business.” As Winnie was sitting on his shoulders, he could feel the tension and anger flowing back into her. “It’s nasty. My father was always kissing the maids, and that was nasty, too.” “Do you think it’s nasty when I kiss my horses?” the earl asked, hefting her to the ground. “No.” Winnie shook her head. “Red and Caesar and Wulf don’t think so either.” “What about when I kiss you?” “You are always silly about it. That’s fine.” Relieved

Old lad . . . good old lad,” Ed his eyes did not turn away from the from the flickering light, for he was thinking, planning, weighing the desperate odds against him, putting all his hard-earned knowledge of winter travel to work on the scheme to still beat Williams’ accomplice to Beaver Falls—to still win the race against dishonor. And as he crouched there with his arm thrown across the bloodstained shoulders of this loyal partner in a cause which was all but lost, Ed did not see the dancing flames. In spirit he was high above the ragged Ine of timber over the Beaver River range, fighting his way through the torturing miles of rocks and barrens and cruel wind of the altitudes. Eighteen hours without a fire, without hot food, without rest eighteen hours at least of heavy breaking through the treacherous, drifted snow of the divide. Yes, that was the best time he could make up there—and if he failed—

Perhaps it is worth nothing at all. How can I tell?” he thought, with the heartsickness of a great timidity. Now that he had left it there, it seemed to him so hazardous, so vain, so foolish, to dream that he, a little lad with bare feet, who barely knew his letters, could do anything at which great painters, real artists, could ever deign to look. Yet he took heart as he went by the cathedral: the lordly form of Rubens seemed to rise from the fog and the darkness, and to loom in its magnificence before him, whilst the lips, with their kindly smile, seemed to him to murmur, “Nay, have courage! It was not by a weak heart and by faint fear that I wrote my name for all time upon Antwerp.

There was no bar on, and the other two pubs in town shut for the night when they heard about the punk gig, but a few lads broke into one of the pubs, turned the pumps on and started serving themselves! Obviously the cops were called, so they ran back to the gig, and when the police turned up, we all pelted them with snowballs. John Hall, of Society’s Victims, was grabbed and thrown in the back of a cop car, and when the copper went to use his radio, John reached over and ripped it out. He got a smack in the mouth for that. Vans soon arrived with dogs and chased us all over the place, and we kept chucking snowballs at them. About half of us were taken to the police station, and it made the front page of the Matlock Mercury: ‘Punk Rockers Run Riot’!

When Lad died, in September of 1918, I collected the ten or twelve yarns I had written about him, and I tried to sell the collection as a book under the name, Lad: A Dog. I was told that there had been no worthwhile dog books since Bob, Son Of Battle and The Call Of The Wild and that the public did not want that kind of fiction. There was no demand; there was no possible profit. Any volume with a canine hero was foredoomed to fall flat.

It was really his fault—and he realized it now—that the man had made such a racket. Would the Master punish him? Perhaps. Humans have such odd ideas of Justice. He—

I’m not given to mawkish sentiment,” went on the Master shamefacedly, “but on the day your fool law for dog exterminating goes into effect there’ll be a piteous crying of little children all over the whole world—of little children mourning for the gentle protecting playmates they loved. And there’ll be a million men and women whose lives have all at once become lonely and empty and miserable. Isn’t this war causing enough crying and loneliness and misery without your adding to it by killing our dogs? For the matter of that, haven’t the army dogs over in Europe been doing enough for mankind to warrant a square deal for their stay-at-home brothers? Haven’t they?

Gently, the Master called him downstairs and across the living room, and put him out of the house. For, after all, a shaggy eighty-pound dog is an inconvenience stretched across a sickroom doorsill. Three minutes later, Lad had made his way through an open window into the cellar and thence upstairs; and was stretched out, head between paws, at the threshold of the Mistress’ room.

First it had been the natural impulse of the thoroughbred —brute or human—to guard the helpless. Then, as the shapeless yellow baby grew into a slenderly graceful collie, his guardianship changed to stark adoration. He was Lady’s life slave.

But of a sudden his head went up; his stiff-poised brush broke into swift wagging; his lips curled down. He had recognized that his prospective foe was not of his own sex. (And nowhere, except among humans, does a full-grown male ill-treat or even defend himself against the female of his species.)

The born watchdog patrols his beat once in so often during the night. At all times he must sleep with one ear and one eye alert. By day or by night he must discriminate between the visitor whose presence is permitted and the trespasser whose presence is not. He must know what class of undesirables to scare off with a growl and what class needs stronger measures. He must also know to the inch the boundaries of his own master’s land.

I do not pretend to say whether or not dogs have a language of their own. Personally, I think they have, and a very comprehensive one, too. But I cannot prove it. No dog student, however, will deny that two dogs communicate their wishes to each other in some way by (or during) the swift contact of noses.

Leeli sat astride Nugget, her hands on the tufts of black fur that gathered at the sides of her dog’s great head, her newest crutch slung with twine over her shoulder. Tink sat just behind his sister with his bow ready. Nia held the tired donkey’s reins and ran a soothing hand along its jaw. When Oskar tried to mount the donkey, it fixed him with a surly eye and brayed. “All right, lads and lasses,” Podo shouted, “we’re off at a quick pace, hear?” “But Grandpa, what about Uncle Peet?” Leeli asked.

Janner never had a chance to swing his sword. The two Fangs at the steps retreated into the mist and left Janner and Podo dumbfounded. “Come on, lad!” The old pirate wasted no time scrambling down the steps. He skidded to a stop at the edge of the rushing water. Without being told, Nugget hopped across again and crouched so Podo could climb on. The giant dog barked and carried him over.

I took a good look at those dogs, out of whom gelatine and soap would be made, and I said to myself: You wait a little, you human master race, I'll teach you, I'll teach you to respect life. I'm going to have it out with you, and with your gas chambers, your atomic bombs and your need for soap . . . That evening I got together two or three lads off the roads —two from the Baltic states and a Polish Jew — and we carried out a little commando raid on the pound — gave the keepers a good thrashing, set the dogs free and the hut on fire.

And then, on the day when his grandfather had turned him out of doors, he had been only a child, now he was a man. He felt it. Misery, we repeat, had been good for him. Poverty in youth, when it succeeds, has this magnificent property about it, that it turns the whole will towards effort, and the whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty instantly lays material life bare and renders it hideous; hence inexpressible bounds towards the ideal life. The wealthy young man has a hundred coarse and brilliant distractions, horse races, hunting, dogs, tobacco, gaming, good repasts, and all the rest of it; occupations for the baser side of the soul, at the expense of the loftier and more delicate sides. The poor young man wins his bread with difficulty; he eats; when he has eaten, he has nothing more but meditation. He goes to the spectacles which God furnishes gratis; he gazes at the sky, space, the stars, flowers, children, the humanity among which he is suffering, the creation amid which he beams. He gazes so much on humanity that he perceives its soul, he gazes upon creation to such an extent that he beholds God. He dreams, he feels himself great; he dreams on, and feels himself tender. From the egotism of the man who suffers he passes to the compassion of the man who meditates. An admirable sentiment breaks forth in him, forgetfulness of self and pity for all. As he thinks of the innumerable enjoyments which nature offers, gives, and lavishes to souls which stand open, and refuses to souls that are closed, he comes to pity, he the millionnaire of the mind, the millionnaire of money. All hatred departs from his heart, in proportion as light Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 1167 penetrates his spirit. And is he unhappy? No. The misery of a young man is never miserable. The first young lad who comes to hand, however poor he may be, with his strength, his health, his rapid walk, his brilliant eyes, his warmly circulating blood, his black hair, his red lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, will always arouse the envy of an aged emperor. And then, every morning, he sets himself afresh to the task of earning his bread; and while his hands earn his bread, his dorsal column gains pride, his brain gathers ideas. His task finished, he returns to ineffable ecstasies, to contemplation, to joys; he beholds his feet set in afflictions, in obstacles, on the pavement, in the nettles, sometimes in the mire; his head in the light. He is firm serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, kindly; and he thanks God for having bestowed on him those two forms of riches which many a rich man lacks: work, which makes him free; and thought, which makes him dignified. This is what had happened with Marius. To tell the truth, he inclined a little too much to the side of contemplation. From the day when he had succeeded in earning his living with some approach to certainty, he had stopped, thinking it good to be poor, and retrenching time from his work to give to thought; that is to say, he sometimes passed entire days in meditation, absorbed, engulfed, like a visionary, in the mute voluptuousness of ecstasy and inward radiance. He had thus propounded the problem of his life: to toil as little as possible at material labor, in order to toil as much as possible at the labor which is impalpable; in other words, to bestow a few hours on real life, and to cast the rest to the 1168 Les Miserables infinite. As he believed that he lacked nothing, he did not perceive that contemplation, thus understood, ends by becoming one of the forms of idleness; that he was contenting himself with conquering the first necessities of life, and that he was resting from his labors too soon. It was evident that, for this energetic and enthusiastic nature, this could only be a transitory state, and that, at the first shock against the inevitable complications of destiny, Marius would awaken.

They were turning into Wallace and Gromit, he could feel it. Soon he'd be calling the dog "lad" and sharing cheese and crackers with it. There were worse things, he supposed.

Just the same," interposed the Master, "we've been stung. I wanted a dog to guard the Place and to be a menace to burglars and all that sort of thing. And they've sent us a Teddy-Bear. I think I'll ship him back and get a grown one. What sort of use is—?" "He is going to be all those things," eagerly prophesied the Mistress. "And a hundred more. See how he loves to have me pet him! And, look—he's learned, already, to shake hands; and

For this is the considerate way of dogs; and of cats as well. When dire sickness smites them, they do not hang about, craving sympathy and calling for endless attention. All they want is to get out of the way,—well out of the way, into the woods and swamps and mountains; where they may wrestle with their life-or-death problem in their own primitive manner; and where, if need be, they may die alone and peacefully, without troubling anyone else.

And, when some such suffering beast is seen, on his way to solitude, we humans prove our humanity by raising the idiotic bellow of "Mad dog!" and by chasing and torturing the victim. All this, despite proof that not one sick dog in a thousand, thus assailed, has any disease which is even remotely akin to rabies.

If you have, you certainly must know that a dog, afflicted with genuine rabies, will no more turn out of his way to bite anyone than a typhoid patient will jump out of bed to chase a doctor. I'm not saying that the bite of any sick animal (or of any sick human, for that matter) isn't more or less dangerous; unless it's carefully washed out and painted with iodine

With grim care the Master and the superintendent watched them. It is at such times of climatic stress that dogs occasionally become sick or half crazed with the heat, unless they are kept quiet and as cool as may be. Hence the superstition that rabies walks rampant during the so-called dog days. Almost never is it true rabies. Nearly always it is some malady or other due to exposure or over-exertion or wrong feeding, on the part of the humans in charge.

He was hailed with much cordiality by the group. The maid of honor, who was an old friend of Laddie’s, unlimbered a candy box from under her arm and offered the collie a large and mushy and delectable bonbon. With outward gravity, but inward bliss, he accepted the gift daintily, and fell to munching it with infinite epicurean relish. Sweets were taboo for dogs, at The Place, as a rule. Lad loved them the more for their rarity.

The clergyman had held field services in France when the shells were dropping all about his khaki congregation. Thus, the advent of a huge and muddily shaggy dog did not throw him off his mental balance in the mere reading of a marriage service.

Here comes Laddie,” she said. “Robert was looking all over for him when he dipped the other dogs. He came and asked me if——” “Trust Lad to know when dipping-day comes around!” laughed the Master. “Unless you or I happen to be on hand, he always gives the men the slip. He—

Strong as was the temptation, Lad drew back from the luscious morsel, after the first instinctive advance. Had the meat been found lying there, he might or might not have eaten it. But he had heard the man throw it to him and it bore the scent of Dilver’s hand. Always Lad had been taught, as had others of the Sunnybank collies, to accept no food from an outsider. This is a needful precaution for dogs that go to shows—at which more than one fine animal has been poisoned—or for dogs that have a home to guard and must be prevented from accepting drugged or poisoned meat. Lad had learned the rule, from his earliest days.

A dog is not at his best, in mind or in body, until he has passed his third year. And, before he nears the ten-year mark, he has begun to decline. At twelve or thirteen, he is as decrepit as is the average human of seventy. And not one dog in a hundred can be expected to live to fourteen. (Lad, by some miracle, was destined to endure past his own sixteenth birthday; a record seldom equaled among his race.)

Being only a dog, Lad had no way of knowing his vanished deities ever would come back to him. Pitifully he followed the Mistress upstairs and down and everywhere she moved, as she prepared for the departure. He refused to be consoled when she patted him and when she said she and the Master would be back in a few days. His classic head drooped. His plumed tail hung disconsolate. He was the picture of utter misery.

His nostrils were aquiver, isolating and tabulating the assailant’s scent, for future use. For a dog does his recognizing by scent, rather than by sight. The smell of the man’s perspiring hand was still rank on Lad’s neck fur. The dog would not forget. If ever the occasion should arise, he would not fail to pay the rest of the account. A collie has a queer power of remembering both good and evil—save only toward those he loves. With those he shows a divine forgetfulness of past bad treatment.

What's that, mister?" "That's the green for the gentleman's coat. No--don't pinch it, or you'll get it all over you. Yes, you can put the cap on. Yes, that's to keep it from drying up. Yes, put it back in the box.... That's yellow. No, I know there isn't any yellow in the picture, but I want it to mix with the green to make it brighter. You'll see. Don't forget the cap. What? Oh, anywhere in the box. White--yes, it's a big tube, isn't it? You see, you have to put a little white into most of the colours--why? Well, they wouldn't come right without it. You'll see when I do the sky. What's that? You want the dog made white all over? No, I can't make it a picture of Scruggs. Why not? Well, Scruggs isn't the right sort of dog to take out shooting. Well, he's not, that's why. This has got to be a retriever. All right, well, I'll put in a liver-and-white spaniel. Oh, well, it's rather a pretty dog with long ears. Yes, I daresay it is like Colonel Amery's. No, I don't know Colonel Amery. Did you put the cap on that white paint? Dash it! if you go losing things like that I'll send you back to Mother and she'll spank you. What? Well, the gentleman has a green coat because he's a gamekeeper. Possibly Colonel Amery's gamekeeper doesn't, but this one does. No, I don't know why gamekeepers wear green coats--to keep them warm, I expect. No, I haven't got any brown paint same as that tree-trunk. I get that by mixing other colours. No, I've got all the colours I want now. You can put 'em away and shut the box. Yes, I can tell pretty well how much I want before I start. That's called a palette knife. No, it isn't meant to be sharp. It's meant for cleaning your palette and so on. Some people use a knife to paint with. Yes, it's nice and wiggly, but it won't stand too much of that kind of treatment, my lad. Yes, of course you can paint with a knife if you want to. You can paint with your fingers if it comes to that. No, I shouldn't advise you to try. Yes, well, it makes a rougher kind of surface, all blobs and chunks of paint. All right, I'll show you presently. Yes, I'm going to begin with the sky. Why? Well, why do you think? Yes, because it's at the top. Yes, of course that blue's too dark, but I'm going to put some white in it. Yes, and some green. You didn't know there was any green in the sky? Well, there is. And sometimes there's purple and pink too. No, I'm not going to paint a purple and pink sky. The gentleman and the dogs have only just started out. It's morning in this picture. Yes, I know, on the other side they're coming home with a lot of birds and things. I'll put a pink and purple sunset into that if you're good and don't ask too many questions. No, be a good girl and don't joggle my arm. Oh, Lord!

The dogs were kept in kennel buildings and in wire “runs” like so many pedigreed cattle—looked after by paid attendants, and trained to do nothing but to be the best-looking of their kind, and to win ribbons. Some of them did not know their owners by sight—having been reared wholly by hirelings. The body was everything; the heart, the mind, the namelessly delightful quality of the master-raised dog—these were nothing.

As Lad passed in through the doorway, he halted involuntarily in dismay. Dogs—dogs—DOGS! More than two thousand of them, from Great Dane to toy terrier, benched in row after row throughout the vast floor space of the Garden! Lad had never known there were so many dogs on earth.

Not one of these people—not even the policeman himself—had any evidence that the collie was mad. There are not two really rabid dogs seen at large in New York or in any other city in the course of a year. Yet, at the back of the human throat ever lurks that fool cry of “Mad dog!”—ever ready to leap forth into shouted words at the faintest provocation

Lad detested guests. He met their advances with cold courtesy, and, as soon as possible, got himself out of their way. He knew the Law far too well to snap or to growl at a guest. But the Law did not compel him to stay within patting distance of one. The careless caress of the Mistress or the Master—especially of the Mistress—was a delight to him. He would sport like an overgrown puppy with either of these deities, throwing dignity to the four winds. But to them alone did he unbend—to them and to his adored tyrant, Lady.

But, with Lad beside her, Baby is in just about as much danger as she would be with a guard of forty U. S. Regulars,” went on the Master. “Take my word for it. Come along, Lady. It’s the kennel for you for the next few weeks, old girl. Lad, when I get back, I’ll wash that shoulder for you.” With a sigh, Lad went over to the hammock and lay down, heavily. For the first time since Baby’s advent at The Place, he was unhappy—very, very unhappy. He had had to jostle and fend off Lady, whom he worshiped. And he knew it would be many a long day before his sensitively temperamental mate would forgive or forget. Meantime, so far as Lady was concerned, he was in Coventry.

There are two things—and perhaps only two things—of which the best type of thoroughbred collie is abjectly afraid and from which he will run for his life. One is a mad dog. The other is a poisonous snake.

I mean it is the nature of all animals to crawl away, alone, into the forest to die. They are more considerate than we. They try to cause no further trouble to those they have loved. Lad got his death from the copperhead’s fangs. He knew it. And while we were all taken up with the wonder of Baby’s cure, he quietly went away—to die.” The Mistress got up hurriedly and left the room. She loved the great dog, as she loved few humans. The guest dissolved into a flood of sloppy tears.

A puppy needs an unbelievable amount of educating. It is a task to wear threadbare the teacher’s patience and to do all kinds of things to the temper. Small wonder that many humans lose patience and temper during the process and idiotically resort to the whip, to the boot toe and to bellowing—in which case the puppy is never decently educated, but emerges from the process with a cowed and broken spirit or with an incurable streak of meanness that renders him worthless. Time, patience, firmness, wisdom, temper control, gentleness—these be the six absolute essentials for training a puppy.

A poet would have vowed that the still and white-shrouded wilderness was a shrine sacred to solitude and severe peace. Lad could have told him better. Nature (beneath the surface) is never solitary and never at peace.

He would not confess, even to himself, that age was beginning to hamper him so cruelly. And he sought to do all the things he had once done—if the Mistress or the Master were looking. But when he was alone, or with the other dogs, he spared himself every needless step. And he slept a great deal.

ignored with disdain by

Mrs. Lejeune wrote that beautiful essay in verse, on dogs, for one of the English magazines,” the Mistress was saying. “So she must like them. I wouldn’t have brought Lad over to meet her unless her essay had shown such a splendid understanding of—” “Mrs. Lejeune didn’t write it,” was the Master’s morbid contradiction. “Maeterlinck wrote it. She took most of the best things in his ‘My Friend The Dog,’ and rhymed them and put them into her own words.

In those days, Lad was the only Sunnybank collie permitted in the dining-room. Whether the family was eating alone or with a roomful of guests, the great collie’s place was always on the floor, close to the left of the Master’s chair, during meals. This to the stumbling discomfort of the servants, in passing things; but as the servants idolized the dog, there was no complaint.

Is she okay?” “I don’t know.” I shrugged helplessly. “He took her away from me.” “Who took her?” “Joey the hurler.” “Well, he is her brother, lad,” Gibsie offered. “He was obviously going to come back for her.” “I don’t give a shite,” I snapped, thinking about her bruised face. “I didn’t want her to leave, Gibs, and he just took her away from me. And I let him!” “You do know that you’re not allowed to keep humans as pets, don’t you?” he asked in a wry tone. “You know that’s just dogs and cats, right?