This, of course, would make any miller's dog who was so foolish as to be sensitive about such matters, very angry; but a sober-minded, cool-headed miller's dog, would first, before getting angry, have found out whether all these things were _true_; if so, he would then have ever after treated our friend's two dogs with the silent contempt they deserved. But it seems this miller's dog was not sober-minded, or cool-headed, for he at once got very angry, and turned about, and said a great many insulting things of our friend's two dogs, which the little terrier very carefully remembered, and trotted back and repeated to them, with some nice little additions of his own. Whereupon they too--without thinking whether this little trickstering Iago of a terrier was not imposing upon them, appear to have immediately declared their intention of chastising the insolence of this low-bred miller's dog; which intention we suppose the little terrier ingeniously applauded, so that they allowed him to lead them off by their noses, as it were, to the mill, where they got into a fight, and got sorely bitten by the miller's dog (who was bigger than they, and had a much _longer_ tail), besides being thoroughly drenched with cold water by the miller himself, as did also the miller's dog--just as they all deserved, for being so silly and foolish as to take everything that a little gossipping busy-body of a terrier had told them for truth.
Is there not a moral somewhere in all this?
Once on a time, I cannot just say when, but it was years on years ago, there lived near a pleasant village in England, a nice, kind-tempered, elderly woman, whom the neighbors called "dear old Dame Watson." She was not rich, this worthy dame, but she would never allow herself to be called poor, for as she had a comfortable home, and was industrious and healthy, she never felt want. She was a very neat seamstress, and so diligent and obliging that she never lacked employment.
Dame Watson was a widow and childless, but she had living with her, two orphan children of her youngest son. William Watson was long the comfort of her sad widowhood, but when he grew to be a man, he chose the hard and dangerous life of a sailor. After awhile there came a long war-time, and there was fighting on the sea as well as on the land, and at last poor William was killed in a battle between two great ships. Then he was let down into the deep sea, to where the water is always still and clear--where the drifting silver sand covered him like a grave-mound--where the long sea-weed waved over him like grass, and bright mosses and beautiful shells shone round him like flowers.