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Something more about dogs.

The several articles and communications about dogs, in this paper, seem to have had the effect of half-crazing dog-owners and dog-fanciers generally. We believe it was Lord Chesterfield who gave as a reason for never giving a ball, the fact that if he did he would be sure to offend all who were not invited, while he would not excite the gratitude of one who was. Now, we do not mean to say that the owners of the dogs whose memoirs we have published are not sufficiently grateful, but the owners of many others are considerably annoyed, because we did not publish what we did not know. A dog belonging at one time to this office--Ponto by name — was a great dog in his day — so we have heard. But we never saw him in the field. All we know of him personally was that he was a large, black, beautiful pointer, with a look of uncommon intelligence, and of a most kindly and sociable disposition. Every body was struck with his appearance at first sight, and not a few tried to steal him; but it was no go. Ponto had more sense than most Christians. He knew as well when he was well off, as the darkey who returned home a few weeks ago, after having made a campaign among the Yankees. Ponto could do a great many things. We do not know that he could set type, but we are not prepared to say that he could not. We remember the cautious reply of the Irishman who was asked if he could play on the fiddle. "I don't know; I never tried." Ponto never tried to set type. If he had, there is no knowing what might have happened. His genius, however, we rather think, lay in the direction of press-work. He was very fond of seeing the press in operation, and would seldom quit it, until the last sheet was struck off. He seemed to have a decided turn for mechanical operations, and the printing press is a beautiful piece of mechanism. After all, however, we doubt whether he was a dog of such decided genius as he whose history is recorded in the following letter from a friend who lives in the county of Halifax:

"Scottsburg, Halifax Co., Nov. 29, 1860.
"Gents--I saw your article in yesterday a Dispatch about dogs, in which you mention several pointers of considerable note. I am the lucky owner of one of the finest dogs of the pointer breed. I will only relate one circumstance to prove that he is a dog of sense. It is my usual habit to put on a few sticks of wood just before going to bed, knowing my dogs to be fond of fire, and if the fire burns down entirely they will jump on my bed as a general thing. But a few nights ago it was very cold, and a noise in the room awoke me, and I looked up and could distinctly see my old dog trying to put a stick of wood on the fire — the — moon was shining in through the windows, and I could see. He had already succeeded in putting on several small pieces of split wood I had in the room for kindling, and all had been burnt up. The old fellow would pull at the wood, and go to my puppy and stir him up, as if to ask him for help. I got up too soon to help him. If I had waited a few minutes, The believe he would have succeeded to get the stick on the fire. This is one instance of his sprightliness, but I could write all day about his superior qualities in the field.


W. G. M., Jr."

There's a dog for you! A dog that can, not only find the game, and recover it after it is killed, but can make up a fire to cook it by, and no doubt helps to eat it, too, when it is done. This beats anything in the dog line we have yet heard of, although a gentleman, dead many years since, who lived in Powhatan, had one that was a pretty good angler, watched the cork, knew when to pull, and on one occasion caught a chub weighing seven pounds. But this dog, we repeat, beats all. All the rest are mere curs to him. He is not only a good fire maker, but he seems to be training up the puppies in the way they should go. Decidedly he should be taught to shoot. Old Mother Hubbard's dog was nothing to him.

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