I.— The Low Dog.
His name is Towzer, alias Pincher, alias Boxer, alias Dash, alias Now-then, alias Here-you, alias Get-out, alias Come-out-of-that. He has also been called S-s-s-it. He is of a mongrel breed—as you may see—and aristocratic dogs looked down upon him in his most prosperous days. He was born in a neighborhood know by the euphonious name of “Back-slums,” and his mother and father made their living in ways not recognized by, and scarce to be mentioned by, the ears polite of reputable dogs. The one found her means of subsistence among the offal and garbage of the street; while the other—rather vicious dog in his way—was an adroit thief, always upon the alert to pry into neglected market-baskets, and known and feared of the corner butchers, from whose stall he had made a stolen meal.
II.—The Fast Dog.
The fast dog is something of a braggart, and tells his own story:
"I am sick of life—sick as a dog. I have exhausted every pleasure in it, and am prepared to say that the world is a bore. Nothing excites me; nothing amuses me. If you were to get up, for my especial gratification, a conceit of sixteen cats and fiddles; if you were to train a whole herd of cows to jump over the moon in my presence; if you were to take me to a coursing match, where the swiftest of gravy-spoons should be hunted by a pack of thorough-bred dishes—none of these exciting sports would make this dog laugh.”
Harper's Weekly, January 16, 1858.