Everybody has heard of Turkish dogs, and I am sure you will consider this book incomplete if I pass them over in silence.

Their origin is shrouded in mystery, but naturalists would probably find them allied to the wolf and the jackal.

Tradition, however, has it that they originated in Tartary, and followed the Mongolians and Turks across the steppes, gorging themselves on the carnage of a thousand battle-fields, and finally settling down with the conquerors.

How much truth there is in this gruesome legend it is impossible to say, but the fact remains that wherever the Turk is found, there, too, the ubiquitous kiopek, or skilo, is seen. Nor does it seem to exist north of Vienna—that outermost ring of Turkish invasion. Dogs, very like skilos, are to be met in Hungary; you have no doubt of their existence when you cross the Danube into Servia; they are numerous in Bulgaria, and you fall into the thick of them when you reach Constantinople, where until recently they were supposed to number 80,000.

In size and appearance they resemble the short-haired Scotch collie, but without the sharpness of nose, and their ears are shorter. With all the instincts of the nomad—unkempt, unkept, and owning no master—their home is the street, where they are born and die, a boon and a bane to mankind. They are the former because they are the scavengers—sometimes the only scavengers—that clean the streets of the refuse thrown into them, and which would otherwise putrefy and breed disease. They are the latter because they collect at night over refuse-heaps, and fight, bark, and yell over the disputed possession of coveted morsels. Their noise disturbs your slumbers and irritates your nerves. Then, lying as they do in the street, you might in the darkness stumble against one, and experience in return something hard and sharp, which would send you howling in your turn.

But skilos do not thrive on refuse alone; they hang about butchers' shops, and are plentiful near the Sultan's palace-kitchens and soldiers' barracks, where remains of food are dispensed to them. At the Ministry of War, in Stamboul, a special man is employed to give them fragments of the soldiers' bread. These he carries in a capacious hamper on his back, and, holding a thick stick in his hand, he proceeds to the public square, where hundreds of dogs await and surround him. His first action is to clear a wide circle with his stick around him, and then he suddenly empties the contents of his hamper. A rush and charge of skilos follows. They tumble over one another in that hissing sea of dogs, but do not seem to mind, provided they can seize a fragment of bread and bolt away. There is strategy, however, even in dogdom, and some, more cunning and fleet-footed than others, do not join in the scrimmage, but quietly await the result at some point of vantage, and, spotting any dog that retires laden with spoil, pursue it, and snatch away its prize.

Yet, with all their habits of the tramp, they seem imbued with a sense of order, and come to an agreement among themselves as to what streets groups of them are to occupy. Woe to the dog that dares to overstep the assigned boundaries. On one condition alone is he allowed to cross through another district—that of lowering his flag—i.e., that he puts his tail under his legs, keeps his head submissively low, and walks in the middle of the street, while all the dogs of the quarter rend the air with their barking.

You must not conclude from what precedes that skilos are devoid of finer feelings and even chivalry. The following incident, related by a friend, regarding one with which I was acquainted, proves the contrary. When a pup, Carabash (black head), as he was called, was picked up in the street, and coddled in a comfortable home. On growing up, he was provided with a kennel in the garden. One frosty morning, when the snow was lying thick on the ground, Carabash was discovered sleeping outside the kennel, which he had surrendered to an emaciated bitch. The intruder was driven away, but next morning was again found in occupancy, and was gruffly expelled. Carabash seemed vexed, and refused to eat his food. On the third morning the strange dog was again found in the kennel, and was this time thrashed out of the premises. She went, like Eve from Paradise, but her Adam followed, took up his residence with her under the shelter of an old tombstone in the Turkish Cemetery, and never again returned to his comfortable home. Their descendants live in the cemetery to this day.

Such romantic incidents would doubtless have met with recognition on behalf of the whole race of dogs in the days of Haroun-al-Raschid, or other heroes of the "Arabian Nights," but the Young Turkey party of to-day are not to be moved by such considerations. They are practical men, and, desiring to cleanse the streets of Constantinople of a recognized nuisance, they decreed the extermination of skilos. But, taking into consideration the Moslem abhorrence of taking away animal life, a curious compromise was made. They were to be banished to a large enclosure at the city walls. A special forceps was invented for the purpose of trapping them, and at dead of night municipal officers gripped the sleeping dogs by the neck or the body, and pitched them into a cart, which conveyed them to their so-called "hotel." Terrible fights occurred there between dogs already in residency and new arrivals, but it frequently happened that kind-hearted Turks waylaid the carts and liberated the captives.

Within their enclosure the dogs were fed and received water at the expense of the State, a grant of £5,000 a year having been voted in Parliament for their maintenance; but soon the space allotted them proved inadequate, and their cries and smells became so horrible that it was decided to move them to another locality.

A little uninhabited island, called Oxya, about fifteen miles from the city, was selected for the purpose, and 30,000 were transported to it. But the island had no water, and the supply of bread was difficult and irregular, and the result was that six months after their transportation only one solitary dog, of which I have the photograph, survived to tell the tale.

Discouraged by their want of success, Government has, I understand, now given up the attempt to exterminate the skilos, and any of my readers who happen to visit Constantinople will probably have the pleasure of forming their acquaintance.