Summer was here at last. The winter had not been very cold, but it had stayed long after spring should have come. Now it seemed almost too warm, perhaps because only a few days before it had been so cold.

It was the end of the school-year, the time for examinations and the giving of prizes, and these last few days were hard on both teachers and children.

Already a holiday breeze was blowing over the budding and blossoming country, and the hum of insects and the singing of birds made one think of the fun that would come with vacation.

Among the scholars bending over their desks was Bertha, a little dark-haired girl, her black eyes fringed with long lashes. She was twelve years old and was working for her first certificate. Morning and afternoon she came to the school, sometimes brought by the maid, but more often by her mother.

As a child she had always been petted and spoiled by her parents, who gave her all the candies and toys she wanted. Her little room was crowded with dolls and playthings of all sorts, each of which had its name.

There were fair dolls, dark dolls, white dolls, black dolls, big dolls—some even were life-size—fat dolls, thin dolls, little dolls, tiny dolls; there were jointed dolls, who opened and shut their eyes; there were dolls who could talk, and dolls who kept silent. I believe myself that Bertha loved the silent ones best; they could not answer back, you see.

Uncle Jean, the brother of Bertha's father, had made a point of giving Bertha her first toy. He brought her, one fine morning, a lovely white poodle, which had pink silk ribbons on it and little tinkly bells. There was a spring inside, and when Bertha pressed this gently with her fingers, the dog barked. It was altogether so well made that you would have thought it was alive.

When he gave it to her, before the whole family, Uncle Jean made her the following speech:

"My dear niece, I give you this dog rather than a doll, because the dog is the friend of man, but a doll—" here he mumbled into his big moustache a lot of long words which got so mixed up with the barking of the dog that nobody could catch them. Perhaps it was just as well.

Uncle Jean was always saying funny clever things to make people laugh but really he was very wise and thoughtful. Everybody liked him and he was invited places all the time.

So Bertha's first plaything was this dog, who was then and there given the name of "Clown." Why they hit upon this name I really cannot say.

After the dog there came, one by one, all the dolls I just told you about, but Bertha loved Clown best. You see, he was the only dog she had, but there were many dolls to share her love.

Every night he was put to bed at the feet of his little mistress, who, each morning as she woke up, took him into her arms and hugged him tight.

Later on, as Bertha grew older, she would talk to him for hours, Clown answering with long barks, really made by Bertha's fingers pressing on the spring.

They were then, as I was just now telling you, on the eve of the examinations. Bertha was working her hardest. For several days she had been very, very quiet, and just a little worried; her parents were quite anxious and petted her even more than usual.

At last one morning, when her mother asked her what was the matter, Bertha decided to tell her all about it. After a long sigh she said:

"Mother, if I pass my examination, will you give me what I have been wanting for a long, long time?"

Then, without waiting for an answer, she went on:

"I want a dog, a little dog, but—a real live one. It will be quite easy to get one if you will only let me. Miss Lewis, our principal at school, is going to have some. Don't laugh, Mother, it is quite true. She told me so herself, and she promised to give me one if you and father would let me have it. Oh, you will ask father, won't you? Everything depends on him," she murmured, snuggling up to her mother and hugging her, "for I know you will let me, won't you, sweetest? Oh, I am so happy, so proud to think of having a dog of my very own." She was so excited, she clapped her hands and danced for joy.

Bertha passed her examinations with honors and, true to his promise, her father said that she might have her dog.

After that nobody could think of anything but the doggie, so eagerly expected. What would he be like? What color would he be? She imagined him now black, now white, now black and white, now sandy. She asked all sorts of questions of everybody she met. She dreamed of him, she thought of him all day long, of nothing but him.

Her father told her not to get too excited, as he was afraid she might be disappointed. Bertha listened at last to his good advice, but even then she could not resist stopping to look in at the windows of the leather goods stores, where muzzles, collars, chains, leashes, whips, boots for the mud, coats and blankets—in short, all the things a dog could need—were displayed.

Dreamily she gazed at the poodles and pet-dogs which passed her, led by fine ladies.

But, what was this? Marie with a letter for the little girl? Bertha recognized the handwriting. Miss Lewis had written to tell her the great news—the puppies had arrived. Five of them. Five little puppies, each with different markings, and Miss Lewis graciously invited her pupil to come and choose.

Bertha was breathless, wild with joy.

"Mother, Mother, let's go quick! My doggie is waiting."

Dressing hastily, mother and daughter went straight to Miss Lewis's house, where they found her beside a beautiful black poodle, who, jealously ready to protect her babies, looked at her visitors as though she didn't quite trust them.

After much hesitation Bertha at last decided upon a sturdy little black puppy, with a white lock set exactly in the middle of his forehead, like a pennant, which made him look very quaint and cunning. Perhaps it was the white lock that decided Bertha, anyhow, directly she saw him, the darling, she cried:

"That's the one I want! I choose him."

She couldn't have told you herself why she chose that one. She thought his brothers and sisters all very pretty, but he was the one she wanted. Love is often like that.

Bertha, who already loved the puppy she had chosen, wanted to take him home with her at once, but her mother and even Miss Lewis insisted that he was too young yet. Just think, he was only just born. It would not be wise to bring him up on the bottle—such a bother—and then the risk of sickness and all that might cause his little mistress all sorts of worry.

Bertha saw that they were right, but she begged Miss Lewis to let her come every day to see him, to which her teacher willingly agreed.

After that Bertha did not let a day go by without a visit to her little friend. The mother-dog soon grew used to seeing the girl; she was a trifle greedy, I must confess, and her affection was quite won by the cakes and dainties which Bertha brought her.

For more than a month the puppy stayed with his mother. He had to be entirely weaned before his mistress could have him.

In the meantime Bertha was busier than ever, busier than she would have been if she had had the doggie at home. She was making all sorts of preparations for him. She bought a regular outfit for her baby, as she called him, and she even wanted to get him nightcaps and pajamas. These her mother did not think necessary. However, to make up for not getting them, she had to get all kinds of other things: curtains for his bed, cushions, ribbons, a collar, a leash, even a tiny muzzle. Her doggie must be well provided for.

After hesitating a long time over the name to be given to the newcomer, Bertha decided to call him "Clown," after her first dog, Uncle Jean's toy. Besides, the name suited him exactly; he was very active, and had a happy look and clumsy ways which made you laugh.

He would spend hours chasing his tail, but as it was rather short and his body very chubby, he never quite caught it. The look of disgust which came over his face when he finally gave up was so funny that Bertha laughed till the tears came to her eyes.

Meantime all his brothers and sisters had been given away. This did not worry Clown a bit; he certainly did not lose his appetite over it; on the contrary, he stuffed himself nearly sick. He drank so hard that sometimes the milk would run out of his nose. Eating like that, he soon became a big fat doggie, strong and active, barking at everything, and snapping at flies.

When Clown was at last old enough to be taken away, Bertha, with her faithful maid, Marie, went to get the little fellow and bring him to his new home.

They had a regular christening party to which all Bertha's little friends and their brothers were invited. There was a fine lunch with lots of candy; they even drank fruit-juice punch. The party was talked of long after by the guests, who enjoyed themselves immensely.

But, alas, a month afterward, a cloud dimmed Bertha's happiness. Uncle Jean did not like the looks of Clown. It is true that although his coat was well brushed and curled and perfumed, the dog did look more like a little bear than a poodle. Uncle Jean was very particular about the training of dogs. He had horses and dogs of his own (he even had a monkey) and he insisted that his grooms keep all his animals, of whom he was very fond, slick and clean.

No poodle of his would have remained unshaven, with tail uncut, when all proper poodles are shaven and have their tails trimmed off.

He said so much about it that at last it was decided that the dog should be sent to the veterinary surgeon, who in a minute had cut off Clown's tail and shaved him like a lion, leaving just a rim of hair around his hind-quarters as an ornament, and a bushy tuft at the end of his trimmed-off tail.

Poor little Clown was terribly upset.

He was brought home looking like a martyr and horribly ashamed; for more than a week he was feverish and had fits of trembling. Bertha cried and cried. I need not tell you what care she took of him. You can guess that for yourself.

Cured at last, he soon forgot about having his hair cut, and became a proud, fine-looking dog. Only he could not bear the sound of shears, and when he heard the dog-clippers go past he would fall into a rage, wanting to run out and bite them, barking furiously in chorus with the other dogs who felt as he did about it.

Bertha ceased to be angry with her uncle. When as she led Clown on the leash she noticed people turn round and go into raptures over the looks of her dog, it made her feel very proud.

The dog grew so fast you could almost see him getting bigger. His training was undertaken carefully, Uncle Jean looking after it himself. Clown learned quickly and easily; he was naturally intelligent and had a truly wonderful memory.

Uncle Jean found that Clown learned tricks easily—he seemed to like to show off—but in other ways he was not so easily managed. He was rather fond of having his own way, and his young mistress got more than one scolding for spoiling him. He insisted on being fed from her own hand, and he would sleep nowhere but in Bertha's room.

Men are conceited things and think themselves much wiser than the animals, but I don't believe they know so very much more after all. It's a question whether the animal's instinct isn't of as much use to him as intelligence is to man. Anyhow, animals can understand one another, even animals of different kinds. I rather think they understand one another better than we understand them.

However that may be, Clown was a wonder. You had only to say what you wanted him to do and he would do it like an old hand. He would jump through a hoop, give his right or left hand as he was asked, leap backward or forward, walk on his hands or feet—all this was child's play to him.

He dearly loved games—such as he could play, of course. He would toss a ball, hunt the thimble, and without ever making a mistake bring back the handkerchief to its owner, grinning with delight. With a policeman's helmet on his head, and a piece of sugar on his nose, looking like a soldier on parade, he would carry arms for hours at a time. What surprising things he could do! You would scarcely believe it, but he had learned to recognize certain letters of the alphabet and to put together the word, B-E-R-T-H-A.

He never made a mistake in spelling the name of his little mistress, although that was, however, the first and last word that they succeeded in teaching him.

Alas, with all his good qualities Clown had his failings. Nobody, sad to say, is faultless. He was given to stealing. A sugar bowl left within his reach had a very bad time of it; he ate all the sugar, to the very last piece, and it was a lucky thing if he didn't break the bowl as well. Clown was greedy, there was no denying.

After a while, sadly spoiled, unfortunately, he began to put on airs of independence. His leash made him impatient, and when he met a dog friend running free about the streets he would behave badly, forcing Bertha to drag him along like a toy without wheels, or he would wallow in the dust, both of which made his mistress very angry.

One day, when he had gone marketing with Marie, he managed to slip his head out of his collar and set off with a rush to join a group of very ill-kept tramp dogs.

Poor Marie called and called, but in vain. Then she ran after him. Not only could she not overtake him but, worse still, at a turning in the road she lost sight of him altogether. In vain she searched the neighborhood, questioning everyone she met, but no one had seen poor Clown.

The excited woman began to cry, not daring to return home without the dog. Anxiously she walked up and down in front of the house. After about half an hour she heard a noise and soon saw a band of children appear, yelling and running after a poor wretched, muddy little dog, to whose tail was tied an old tin can which knocked against the pavement with every jump he took.

Marie could not believe her eyes.

You would never have known it was poor Clown, so terrified, his eyes almost bursting from his head, his tongue hanging. As soon as he caught sight of Marie, he hurled himself into her arms, covering her with both kisses and mud.

Marie was so sorry for him that she hadn't the heart to scold the poor animal. She took him in her apron and after untying the horrible tin can he had been dragging after him, she carried him up to her room and there bathed him from head to foot. He needed it, I can tell you.

"If this will only be a lesson to him," she said to herself; but she did not dare to tell anybody about his running away.

After this adventure Clown behaved very much better and was quiet and obedient for several weeks. When his mistress took him out he followed her quietly on the leash, without making any objection. Thus his life flowed on, calm and happy. He had everything a dog could wish, except, perhaps, a little more freedom. In the house, in the garden, in the country, he could run about as he pleased, but in the streets Bertha always kept him on the leash. The leash was held by a hand very gentle, very easy and discreet, but in spite of that he always resented it. He had tried everything he could to get rid of it. When he could get at it, he would hide it or chew it up so that it was not fit to use. Bertha just bought another one at once. Then, to show his hatred of it, Clown invented all sorts of tricks, winding himself round the feet of passers-by, getting himself caught behind a tree, planting his feet and refusing to move. That was his revenge.

In this way, two years passed without anything happening worth telling you about.

Our doggie, cared for as he was, had grown into a very handsome creature.