Loki is once more Only-dog in London. He is unspeakably grimy, as none of the famiglia except Juvenal are ever able or willing to tub him when he most wants it. Juvenal, his special friend, has been away on his holiday—poor little Loki could not understand his absence. He was perpetually rushing out of the rooms and downstairs to see if he had arrived. At last, worn out with suspense, he dashed up to his butler’s bedroom and would not be satisfied till he was admitted; when, jumping on the bed, he began to tear up the clothes, believing, we suppose, that Juvenal shared his propensity for curling under the quilt. Odd little dog! He has as many moods as a fine lady, and when really annoyed lies in a strained attitude with his hind paws stuck outward like the embryo legs of a little crocodile. This is the sign that he wants “a powder”: what we call in our playful dog-language, “a pow-pow.”

What a freemasonry the love of dogs creates! Loki’s Grandfather, travelling up from our moors the other day, met a family likewise going to London; and these had with them a small Pekinese, who sat very sadly with drooping head and tail. The owner of Loki watched him sympathetically for some time in silence, then unable to repress his feelings, he leant forward and said very solemnly to the Pekinese’s lady:

“This little dog wants a pow-wow!”

“Oh! we know,” eagerly cried the lady in charge, “we know he does! He should have had it this morning, only we were travelling.”

We were pleased with the anecdote when Loki’s Grandfather told us. No introductions, no explanations needed: even our own special doggy dialect instantly apprehended! One touch of Peky makes the whole world kin.

A divine discontent seems an unavoidable accompaniment of garden ambition. The Lady of Villino Loki is always furiously disappointed every time she returns home—except in the Spring. She had, this time, wonderful visions of her Madonna Lilies, proudly straight against the upper terrace wall; of her Blue Border foaming blue; of her new turf settling down into greenness. And, behold, the Lilies have got the lily disease, drat them! the Blue Border never will be blue, whatever she does; the Anchusas have gone back to the wild; and not one drop of water has the infant turf received through three weeks of drought since her departure—with the results that can be imagined!

Not one of our precious packets of seed have come up! We once knew a pretty American whose daughter married a rather impoverished young Englishman of very good connexions. He was, however, scarcely important enough himself to attract much attention: and the day before the wedding he was nonplussed by his future mother-in-law, hitherto the most silky and smiling of beings, taking him by the arm and marching him round the displayed wedding presents, pausing at every step to remark: “I do not see the present of your uncle, Lord A.! I do not see the present of your cousin, Lady B.! I do not see the present of your great aunt, the Duchess of C.!”...

We want to take the seedsman in similar fashion round the greenhouse shelves:

“Where are the pots of Mignonette?” we will say. “Where the serried ranks of Scarlet Verbena? Where are the potted Nicotianas?”...