mirable outdoor qualities. But it may be found blooming luxuriously in other and less favoured lands. That interesting study of Danish childhood by Carl Ewald, called "My Little Boy," contains a chapter devoted to the lamentable death of a dog named Jean, "the biggest dog in Denmark." This animal, though at times condescending to kindness, knew how to maintain his just authority. "He once bit a boy so hard that the boy still walks lame. He once bit his own master." The simple pride with which these incidents are narrated would charm a dog-lover's soul. And the lame boy's point of view is not permitted to intrude.
Of all writers who have sung the praises of the dog, and who have justified our love for him, Maeterlinck has given the fullest expression to the profound and absorbing egotism which underlies this love. Never for a moment does he consider his dog save as a wor-
