W ULLY was a little yaller dog. A yaller dog, be it understood, is not necessarily the same as a yellow dog. He is not simply a canine whose capillary covering is highly charged with yellow pigment. He is the mongrelest mixture of all mongrels, the least common multiple of all dogs, the breedless union of all breeds, and though of no breed at all, he is yet of older, better breed than any of his aristocratic relations, for he is nature's attempt to restore the ancestral jackal, the parent stock of all dogs.
Indeed, the scientific name of the jackal (Canis aureus) means simply 'yellow dog,' and not a few of that animal's characteristics are seen in his domesticated representative. For the plebeian cur is shrewd, active, and hardy, and far better equipped for the real struggle of life than any of his 'thoroughbred' kinsmen.
If we were to abandon a yaller dog, a greyhound, and a bulldog on
a desert island, which of them after six months would be alive and
well? Unquestionably it would be the despised yellow cur. He has
not the speed of the greyhound, but neither does he bear the seeds
of lung and skin diseases. He has not the strength or reckless
courage of the bulldog, but he has something a thousand times
better, he has common sense. Health and wit are no mean
equipment for the life struggle, and when the
The Three Maroons
Once in a while the reversion to the jackal type is more complete, and the yaller dog has pricked and pointed ears. Beware of him then. He is cunning and plucky and can bite like a wolf. There is a strange, wild streak in his nature too, that under cruelty or long adversity may develop into deadliest treachery in spite of the better traits that are the foundation of man's love for the dog.
WAY up in the Cheviots little Wully was born. He and one other of the litter were kept; his brother because he resembled the best dog in the vicinity, and himself because he was a little yellow beauty.
His early life was that of a
Wully could not have imagined any greater being than Robin, and yet for the sum of five shillings a week all Robin's vital energy and mental force were pledged to the service of a not very great cattle and sheep dealer, the real proprietor of Wully's charge, and when this man, really less great than the neighboring laird, ordered Robin to drive his flock by stages to the Yorkshire moors and markets, of all the 376 mentalities concerned, Wully's was the most interested and interesting.
The journey through Northumberland was uneventful. At the River Tyne the sheep were driven on to the ferry and landed safely in smoky South Shields. The great factory chimneys were just starting up for the day and belching out fogbanks and thunder-rollers of opaque leaden smoke that darkened the air and hung low like a storm-cloud over the streets. The sheep thought that they recognized the fuming dun of an unusually heavy Cheviot storm. They became alarmed, and in spite of their keepers stampeded through the town in 374 different directions.
Robin was vexed to the inmost recesses of his tiny soul. He stared stupidly after the sheep for half a minute, then gave the order, "Wully, fetch them in." After this mental effort he sat down, lit his pipe, and taking out his knitting began work on a half-finished sock.
To Wully the voice of Robin was the voice of God. Away he ran in 374 different directions, and headed off and rounded up the 374 different wanderers, and brought them back to the ferry-house before Robin, who was stolidly watching the process, had toed off his sock.
Finally Wully—not Robin—gave the sign that all were in. The old shepherd proceeded to count them—370, 371, 372, 373.
"Wully," he said reproachfully, "thar no' a' here. Thur's anither." And Wully, stung with shame, bounded off to scour the whole city for the missing one. He was not long gone when a small boy pointed out to Robin that the sheep were all there, the whole 374. Now Robin was in a quandary. His order was to hasten on to Yorkshire, and yet he knew that Wully's pride would prevent his coming back without another sheep, even if he had to steal it. Such things had happened before, and resulted in embarrassing complications. What should he do? There was five shillings a week at stake. Wully was a good dog, it was a pity to lose him, but then, his orders from the master; and again, if Wully stole an extra sheep to make up the number, then what—in a foreign land too? He decided to abandon Wully, and push on alone with the sheep. And how he fared no one knows or cares.
Meanwhile, Wully careered through miles of streets hunting in vain for his lost sheep. All day he searched, and at night, famished and worn out, he sneaked shamefacedly back to the ferry, only to find that master and sheep had gone. His sorrow was pitiful to see. He ran about whimpering, then took the ferryboat across to the other side, and searched everywhere for Robin. He returned to South Shields and searched there, and spent the rest of the night seeking for his wretched idol. The next day he continued his search, he crossed and recrossed the river many times. He watched and smelt everyone that came over, and with significant shrewdness he sought unceasingly in the neighboring taverns for his master. The next day he set to work systematically to smell everyone that might cross the ferry.
The ferry makes fifty trips a day, with an average of one hundred
persons a trip, yet never once did Wully fail to be on the
Day after day, week after week Wully watched and waited for his master, who never came. The ferry men learned to respect Wully's fidelity. At first he scorned their proffered food and shelter, and lived no one knew how, but starved to it at last, he accepted the gifts and learned to tolerate the givers. Although embittered against the world, his heart was true to his worthless master.
Fourteen months afterward I made his acquaintance. He was still on rigid duty at his post. He had regained his good looks. His bright, keen face set off by his white ruff and pricked ears made a dog to catch the eye anywhere. But he gave me no second glance, once he found my legs were not those he sought, and in spite of my friendly overtures during the ten months following that he continued his watch, I got no farther into his confidence than any other stranger.
For two whole years did this devoted creature attend that ferry. There was only one thing to prevent him going home to the hills, not the distance nor the chance of getting lost, but the conviction that Robin, the godlike Robin, wished him to stay by the ferry; and he stayed.
But he crossed the water as often as he felt
it would serve his
purpose. The fare for a dog was one penny, and it was calculated
that Wully owed the company hundreds of pounds before he gave
up his quest. He never failed to sense every pair of nethers that
We had never heard what became of Robin, but one day a sturdy
drover strode down the
One of the ferry hands not understanding, called to the stranger, "Hoot mon, ye maunna hort oor dawg."
"Whaes hortin 'im, ye fule; he is mair like to hort me." But further explanation was not necessary. Wully's manner had wholly changed. He fawned on the drover, and his tail was wagging violently for the first time in years.
A few words made it all clear. Dorley, the drover, had known Robin very well, and the mittens and comforter he wore were of Robin's own make and had once been part of his wardrobe.
Wully recognized the traces of his
master, and despairing of any nearer approach to his lost idol, he
abandoned his post at the ferry and plainly announced his intention
of sticking to the owner of the mittens, and Dorley was well
pleased to take Wully along to his home among the hills of
Derbyshire, where he became once more a
Once more a sheep‑dog in charge of a flock.
Monsaldale is one of the
Wully's new home was on the upland east of
the valley above Jo's
inn, and that fact was not without weight in bringing me to
Monsaldale. His master, Dorley, farmed in a small way on the
lowland, and on the moors had a large number of sheep. These
Wully guarded with his
The dales are poor fox-hunting country at best. The rocky ridges, high stone walls, and precipices are too numerous to please the riders, and the final retreats in the rocks are so plentiful that it was a marvel the foxes did not overrun Monsaldale. But they didn't. There had been but little reason for complaint until the year 1881, when a sly old fox quartered himself on the fat parish, like a mouse inside a cheese, and laughed equally at the hounds of the huntsmen and the lurchers of the farmers.
He was several times run by the Peak hounds, and escaped by making for the Devil's Hole. Once in this gorge, where the cracks in the rocks extend unknown distances, he was safe. The country folk began to see something more than chance in the fact that he always escaped at the Devil's Hole, and when one of the hounds who nearly caught this Devil's Fox soon after went mad, it removed all doubt as to the spiritual paternity of said fox.
He continued his career of rapine, making audacious raids and
hair-breadth escapes, and finally began, as do many old foxes, to
kill from a mania for slaughter. Thus it was that Digby lost ten
lambs in one night. Carroll lost seven the next night. Later, the
Of course all the slaughter was attributed to this one fox of the Devil's Hole. It was known only that he was a very large fox, at least one that made a very large track. He never was clearly seen, even by the huntsmen. And it was noticed that Thunder and Bell, the stanchest hounds in the pack, had refused to tongue or even to follow the trail when he was hunted.
His reputation for madness sufficed to make the master of the Peak hounds avoid the neighborhood. The farmers in Monsaldale, led by Jo, agreed among themselves that if it would only come on a snow, they would assemble and beat the whole country, and in defiance of all rules of the hunt, get rid of the 'daft' fox in any way they could. But the snow did not come, and the red-haired gentleman lived his life. Notwithstanding his madness, he did not lack method. He never came two successive nights to the same farm. He never ate where he killed, and he never left a track that betrayed his retreat. He usually finished up his night's trail on the turf, or on a public highway.
Once I saw him. I was walking to Monsaldale from Bakewell late
one night during a heavy storm, and as I turned the corner of
There was only one man who escaped, and that was Dorley. This was the more remarkable because he lived in the centre of the region raided, and within one mile of the Devil's Hole. Faithful Wully proved himself worth all the dogs in the neighborhood. Night after night he brought in the sheep, and never one was missing. The Mad Fox might prowl about the Dorley homestead if he wished, but Wully, shrewd, brave, active Wully was more than a match for him, and not only saved his master's flock, but himself escaped with a whole skin. Everyone entertained a profound respect for him, and he might have been a popular pet but for his temper which, never genial, became more and more crabbed. He seemed to like Dorley, and Huldah, Dorley's eldest daughter, a shrewd, handsome, young woman, who, in the capacity of general manager of the house, was Wully's special guardian. The other members of Dorley's family Wully learned to tolerate, but the rest of the world, men and dogs, he seemed to hate.
His uncanny disposition was well shown in the last meeting I had with him. I was walking on a pathway across the moor behind Dorley's house. Wully was lying on the doorstep. As I drew near he arose, and without appearing to see me trotted toward my pathway and placed himself across it about ten yards ahead of me. There he stood silently and intently regarding the distant moor, his slightly bristling mane the only sign that he had not been suddenly turned to stone. He did not stir as I came up, and not wishing to quarrel, I stepped around past his nose and walked on. Wully at once left his position and in the same eerie silence trotted on some twenty feet and again stood across the pathway. Once more I came up and, stepping into the grass, brushed past his nose. Instantly, but without a sound, he seized my left heel. I kicked out with the other foot, but he escaped. Not having a stick, I flung a large stone at him. He leaped forward and the stone struck him in the ham, bowling him over into a ditch. He gasped out a savage growl as he fell, but scrambled out of the ditch and limped away in silence.
Yet sullen and ferocious as Wully was to the world, he was always gentle with Dorley's sheep. Many were the tales of rescues told of him. Many a poor lamb that had fallen into a pond or hole would have perished but for his timely and sagacious aid,
many a far-weltered ewe did he turn right side up;
while his keen eye discerned and his fierce courage baffled every eagle that had appeared on the moor in his time.
The Monsaldale farmers were still paying their nightly tribute to
the Mad Fox, when the snow came, late in December. Poor Widow
Gelt lost her entire flock of twenty sheep, and the fiery cross went
forth early in the morning. With guns unconcealed the burly
farmers set out to follow to the finish the
For a while the trail was clear enough, then it came to the
river and the habitual cunning of the animal was shown. He
reached the water at a long angle pointing down stream and
jumped into the shallow, unfrozen current. But at the other side
there was no track leading out, and it was only after long searching
that, a quarter of a mile higher up the stream, they found where he
had come out. The track then ran to the top of Henley's high stone
wall, where there was no snow left to tell tales. But the patient
hunters persevered. When it crossed the smooth snow from the
wall to the high road there was a difference of opinion. Some
claimed that the track went up, others down the road. But Jo
settled it, and after another long search they found where
apparently the same trail, though some said a larger one, had left
the road to enter a
That day the sheep were kept in on account of the snow and Wully,
without his usual occupation, was lying on some planks in the sun.
As the hunters drew near the house, he growled savagely and
sneaked around to where the sheep were. Jo Greatorex walked up
to where Wully had crossed the fresh snow, gave a glance, looked
dumbfounded, then pointing to the retreating
"Lads, we're off the track of the Fox. But there's the killer of the Widder's yowes."
Some agreed with Jo, others recalled the doubt in the trail and were for going back to make a fresh follow. At this juncture, Dorley himself came out of the house.
"Tom," said Jo, "that dog o' thine 'as killed twenty of Widder Gelt's sheep, last night. An' ah fur one don't believe as it is first killin'."
"Why, mon, thou art crazy," said Tom. "Ah never 'ad a better
"Aye! We's seen summat o' that in las' night's work," replied Jo.
In vain the company related the history of the morning. Tom swore that it was nothing but a jealous conspiracy to rob him of Wully.
"Wully sleeps i' the kitchen every night. Never is oot till he's let to bide wi' the yowes. Why, mon, he's wi' oor sheep the year round, and never a hoof have ah lost."
Tom became much excited over this abominable attempt against Wully's reputation and life. Jo and his partisans got equally angry, and it was a wise suggestion of Huldah's that quieted them.
"Feyther," said she, "ah'll sleep i' the kitchen the night. If Wully 'as ae way of gettin' oot ah'll see it, an' if he's no oot an' sheep's killed on the country-side, we'll ha' proof it's na Wully."
That night Huldah stretched herself on the settee and Wully slept
as usual underneath the table. As night wore on the dog became
restless. He turned on his bed and once or twice got up, stretched,
looked at Huldah and lay down again. About two o'clock he
seemed no longer able to resist some strange impulse. He arose
quietly, looked toward the low window, then at the motionless girl.
Huldah lay still
and breathed as though sleeping. Wully slowly
came near and sniffed and breathed his doggy breath in her face.
She made no move. He nudged her gently with his nose. Then,
with his sharp ears forward and his head on one side he studied her
calm face. Still no sign. He walked quietly to the window,
mounted the table without noise, placed his nose under the
Wully studied her calm face.
From her couch Huldah watched in amazement. After waiting for some time to make sure that he was gone, she arose, intending to call her father at once, but on second thought she decided to await more conclusive proof. She peered into the darkness, but no sign of Wully was to be seen. She put more wood on the fire, and lay down again. For over an hour she lay wide awake listening to the kitchen clock, and starting at each trifling sound, and wondering what the dog was doing. Could it be possible that he had really killed the widow's sheep? Then the recollection of his gentleness to their own sheep came, and completed her perplexity.
Another hour slowly tick-tocked. She heard a slight sound at the window that made her heart jump. The scratching sound was soon followed by the lifting of the sash, and in a short time Wully was back in the kitchen with the window closed behind him.
By the flickering
Huldah had seen enough. There could no longer be any doubt that Jo was right and more—a new thought flashed into her quick brain, she realized that the weird fox of Monsal was before her. Raising herself, she looked straight at Wully, and exclaimed:
"Wully! Wully! so it's a' true—oh, Wully, ye terrible brute."
Her voice was fiercely reproachful, it rang in the quiet kitchen, and Wully recoiled as though shot. He gave a desperate glance toward the closed window. His eye gleamed, and his mane bristled. But he cowered under her gaze, and grovelled on the floor as though begging for mercy. Slowly he crawled nearer and nearer, as if to lick her feet, until quite close, then, with the fury of a tiger, but without a sound, he sprang for her throat.
The girl was taken unawares, but she threw up her arm in time, and Wully's long, gleaming tusks sank into her flesh, and grated on the bone.
"Help! help! feyther! feyther!" she shrieked.
Wully was a light weight, and for a moment she flung him off. But there could be no mistaking his purpose. The game was up, it was his life or hers now.
"Feyther! feyther!" she screamed, as the yellow fury, striving to kill her, bit and tore the unprotected hands that had so often fed him.
In vain she fought to hold him off, he would soon have had her by the throat, when in rushed Dorley.
Straight at him, now in the same horrid silence sprang Wully, and
savagely tore him again and again before a deadly blow from the