Yes. He was born in the first week of June, in the year 1906. Quite a short while ago, as you see—that is, as we men count time—but long enough, just as a child’s life is occasionally long enough, to affect the lives—ay, more, the characters—of some who claimed to be his betters on this present earth, with certainties in some dim and distant heaven that might or might not have a corner here or there for dogs.

His parentage was that of a royal house in purity of strain and length of pedigree, and he first saw the light in the yard of a mill upon the river, where the old wheel had groaned for generations or dripped in silence, according as the water rose or fell, and corn came in to be ground.

There were others like him in appearance in the yard; on the eyot on which the mill-buildings stood, gorgeous in many-coloured tiles; round the dwelling-house, or in a large wired enclosure close by. His master, the Over-Lord, bred dogs of his kind for the nonce, not necessarily for profit, but because, with a great heart for dogs, he chose to, claiming indeed the proud boast that not a single dog of his class walked these Islands that was not of his strain—and claiming that, moreover, truly.

At one period there might have been counted, in and around this mill-yard, no less than thirty-eight dogs, young and middle-aged, and all more or less closely related. But while this number was much above the average, the congestion that arose thereby was chargeable with the single unhappy episode in Murphy’s life, concerning which he often spoke to me in after days, and the effect of which he carried to the end. Of this, however, more later.

Life in the midst of such a company—Irishmen all—necessarily meant a more or less rough-and-tumble existence, where the strongest had the best of it, and the weaker ones were knocked out, when the Master was not there to interfere. Each one had to find his own level by such means as he could, and thus this great company, or school, of dogs resembled in many particulars those other schools to which We are sent Ourselves, or send those other sons of Ours. The training to be got here, as elsewhere, developed primarily, indeed, and all unconsciously, the first and greatest of requisites in life, whether for dog or man. And if, in some instances, evil characteristics, such as combativeness, selfishness, and the habit of bad language, became accentuated, in spite of the stern discipline of the place, their opposites—good temper, a light and happy disposition, and a civil tongue—received their meed of recognition even from the bigger fellows, like Pagan I. or II., or that Captain of the School, often spoken of with bated breath—Postman, Murphy’s father, mated afterwards to the great beauty, Barbara, both being of the bluest of blue blood.

The young were taught their place, and that further quality, now dropping out of fashion—how to keep it. Or each one had a lesson in yet another virtue, still more out of date, being judged no longer necessary or becoming in this very modern world, and as only showing a silly deference if exhibited at all. Respect was, in truth, the chief of all virtues here inculcated—respect for age, for old dogs are no longer to be challenged; respect for strength and the great unwritten laws; respect for sex; respect for those who had shown themselves to be the better men; respect for such as neither fought nor swore but held their own by character alone.

It was, for instance, not correct for the young to approach the older members of the school and claim equality, for, strange as it may seem, equality had no place here, save that all were dogs. Nor when a bigger fellow had a bone, won, earned, or come by of his own enterprise, was it deemed fitting that the young should do more than watch at respectful distance, with ears drooped and envy curbed as well as might be. By such methods the meaning of the sacredness of property was taught; and also, that without due regard to this last there could be security for no one, or for anything that he might own.

True, some of this company here, suffering from swelled-head, the harebrained impetuosity of youth, or judging that to them alone had been bequeathed the secret of all requisite reforms, advanced theories of their own composing. Of course they found adherents, especially when gain was scented, for to profit at another’s expense is not unpopular, in some directions, from the top to the bottom of the world. But, as a rule, these theories were not long-lived. The company, so to speak, found themselves, and the innate good sense they claimed to have came to their aid, before the whole school was set generally by the ears, or the Over-Lord was called upon to interfere.

Thus, where a fellow’s own was concerned the cry with the really honest was, “Hands off, there!”—blood being rightly spilt, if necessary, in defence thereof, as it always will be, till the last of dogs and men lie down and die. Of course if one or other left his own unguarded, or, overcome by plethora, fell asleep, or grew fat and careless, then another of his standing came and took that property away. In such an event, he who had lost could do no more than whimper cur-like, while those lying round the yard would look up to see what the shindy was about, and then quietly remark, “That’s as it should be.”

Then again, when, on a sultry afternoon in this first summer of Murphy’s life, some older members of the family betook themselves to such cool places on the eyot as the shadows cast by the wide eaves of the mill, it was ordered they were to be left in peace and not plagued by younger folk, however good-natured they might be. Nor were others to be followed when they stole away to the opening of the mill-race—where the water came out at speed, brown and foaming, from the dark shadows under the floors—to listen, maybe, half asleep, to the great wheel groaning its solemn music, as the dripping green paddles threw off a cool mist to refresh the jaded air.

However strange such a choice might seem to those of restless spirit, it was not more so than that of others who, careless of themselves, preferred a hole in the dust of the upper yard among the Buff Orpingtons, and the grilling heat of the midsummer sun. There must be differences of taste here as elsewhere. The spot chosen must be respected, not only because it was the home for the time, however short, but also because here was privacy, and it was not right that such should be at any time invaded, if rightly and obviously sought—at least, so was it judged by those who inhabited the island at this period.

That Murphy noticed all these things goes without saying. He kept them mostly to himself, after the manner of his kind; but he watched nevertheless closely, his black eyebrows moving continually just above his eyes, as he lay in the rough grass in the shade of the pollard willows, or beneath the whispering aspens.

At this time he had not long emerged from the limp stage, when hind-quarters would continually give way, and there was nothing to be done but rest on one haunch and try to look wise, being continually bothered by the flies. After a while he began to grow stronger and more comely, his ears darkened, and his eyes—put in, as they say, with a dirty thumb—grew larger, taking on that exceeding brightness that made passers-by look and look again. He was also allowed further afield when his turn came. There were walks along the river-banks, in company with half-a-dozen of the others; and before he was six months old he could run a good distance with a horse and trap, ere he would come to the step and look up with a laugh, saying, “Here, take me up; I’m blown!” The old horse in the shafts knew the ways of the dogs well, and would shorten his pace, and indeed pull up altogether, if a thoughtless one was likely to be injured. It was probably from this that Murphy suffered all his life from a mistaken notion that it was the duty of horses, as well as drivers of all kinds, to get out of his way, and not he necessarily out of theirs.

It was a happy life in a land of happiness and freedom, though discipline was stern, and all had to pass their period of training. Sooner or later each one was judged upon his merits, as well by his comrades as by the great, tall Over-Lord, to whom primarily they owed allegiance. And if such judgment was occasionally fallacious, as it frequently is, the world over, when based upon such points alone, it worked out fairly when the time arrived for an estimate to be made of the character that every one here was entitled to—when the first home had to be left behind, and the world faced in town or country, up or down the greater river of a common life.

For such a temperament as Murphy’s, a life like this was happiness itself. He was sociable, and loved company intensely, though preferably the company of Man. Solitude he abhorred; games were his delight; for killing things, even were it a rat from one of the thousand holes he met with when walking by the river, he never cared, and indeed appeared never quite to understand. “Live and let live” was his motto, while playing always the game of “catch-who-catch-can.”

There was no reason to bring pain into the field at all. Life to him was a condition full of smiles, or to be made so, though there was snarling round the corner, as well as folk of difficult temperament to remain puzzlers to the end. Those about, therefore, were to be reckoned friends, and to be met in such way as better dogs themselves lay down. Their society obviously had its rules, which, if occasionally broken, were yet to be known and recognised, just as they themselves, though dogs, were able to discern that the members of that other society, on to which they were apparently grafted, had theirs.

These last and they themselves were nothing less than partners—so it seemed to him—in a great game, to be played always in good heart and with the spirit of true sportsmanship. Both moved according to law, the only difference between the two being that Men held the power of the Veto—and exercised it too often, he would add in his perfect, well-bred manner, in a way that declared their ignorance. Men, he averred, would always insist on assuming that their laws were right at all times, and, furthermore, were always applicable to dogs, forgetting that, more often even than themselves, dogs were moved by laws imperious.

Had he been as the majority of dogs, he would, when such thoughts occupied his brain, have joined no doubt unhesitatingly in Puck’s song—

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!”

But, then, this is where he differed from that majority. Man was his friend. Friendship meant loyalty, and loyalty should be unstained.

There was much in what he said. On many an occasion a dog will show that he knows better than a man, and can do things that transcend Man’s boasted powers. We all know that—or should do so—for the moment may arrive when we find ourselves dependent on the judgment of a dog. To fail to recognise it then is to create difficulties and to blunder badly, causing the most tractable of our friends to look up with a puzzled expression in their eyes, and the more head-strong and outspoken to go ahead, with this sentence, flung back over the shoulder—“You fools, you; when will you understand!”

And the fun of it all is that Man with his self-assurance, and that limited vision of his of which he seems sometimes completely unaware, thinks that he is training the dog, whereas the dog is perfectly capable, as will be shown, of at least in some directions training him. Thus, where differences arise, Man jumps to his conclusions and claims his prerogative. It is a sorry business when an all-too-hasty punishment follows, as it often does, for Man—so Murphy used to say—would find himself very frequently to be wrong. But then Murphy, when he talked like this in the after days, showing how easily We might make mistakes, and explaining so much that was not wholly realised before, caused sundry folk to wonder whether in some previous life he had in his spare time studied Bentham. For dogs or men to make mistakes is not necessarily for them to do wrong. “To trace errors to their source is often to refute them.”

He often quoted that; but on the only occasion on which he was asked about his previous studies he remained silent. He and his Master were sitting on the hillside, far away from the hum of men—as, in fact, they mostly were. His eyes were ranging over the valley to the skyline. “That’s the way to look, my dear master,” he appeared to be saying—“that’s the way to look. Never run heel way. For you and me there is a future. Look ahead, and cast forward; never look behind!”

His remarks often, in this way, touched lightly on great questions.

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