8
MY LAST FRIEND
ing my frown, like a mischievous urchin, you stare back after your bad behavior as if it were honest guilt; and you turn around to look at me with gratitude when I pass my hand over your head, and you give me a kiss with a lick of your tongue, and you stretch one of your paws over my mouth to stop my whistle that annoys your nerves; and follow with your eye every gesture, and turn at every sound in the conversation when we are talking about you, as if you understood the meaning of the words;[1] and you pass continually from manifestations of an intelligence that bewilders us, to signs of stupidity that become inexplicable by the comparison, and you appear repeatedly in the space of an hour, grave like a man, joyous like a child, fierce
- ↑ In a newspaper article in the New York Times, John Burroughs is credited with saying of his dog, Lark: "He understood not only what I said, but what I thought." It is one of the strongest points of De Amicis' work that he greatly fears that Dick does understand a terrible secret in his mind. John Burroughs' essay, "The Animal Mind," printed long ago in The Atlantic Monthly has become, I believe, the one authority on the mentality of our dumb friends. It is an interesting point in the study of Dick that the two great authors agree that the two dogs understand words, yes words,—and more yet, they understand thoughts. This is the key-note of the work, "Il mio ultimo Amico," and makes the study invaluable as a companion to "The Animal Mind.” Lista says: "You find the spirit of Dick in De Amicis"; and Lark, too, in many ways, resembles in psychological characteristics his gentle master. M. E. Burt, Editor of "Dick."
