. . . part of the mother. A fox-terrier, which had temporarily deserted his mistress, slipped through the iron fence which skirts the edge of Wandsworth Common, and began to amuse itself by teasing the sheep, scampering about like a little Fury. The shepherd was busy talking with the writer, but the two sheep-dogs—mother and son—seeing the commotion, flew away of their own accord, and, like arrow from bow, darted at the terrier.
What followed was comical to behold. The frightened mischief-maker tried to escape, but the sheep-dogs ran him down. The younger dog pinned him to the ground, while the mother showed her fangs and stood by grinning. Half in play, half in earnest, the puppy began to throttle the terrier, and to roll him over and over. Meanwhile the shepherd was calmly watching the scene through the smoke wreaths of his pipe. When he thought that matters had gone far enough—and, indeed, the hubbub was alarming—he holloaed to the dogs, “Hild awa-ay, hild away.” Not so; the youngster would not loose his hold. “Haud away-a, come in ahint,” shouts the shepherd again; and adds some words unintelligible to me, but evidently quite understood by the elder dog as a reproach for not restraining the pupil. Thereupon the mother grabs the over-zealous puppy, who, not without difficulty, is forced to let the little culprit go free. The fox-terrier, for his part, is . . .