Instances of the Remarkable Intelligence and Unselfish Devotion of Man's Best Friend Among Dumb Animals.

OTHER papers in this number of the Geographic have pictured the outward dog. They have shown the great gap between the stub-nosed, short-legged pug and the long-muzzled, lank-limbed greyhound. They have contrasted the bare - skinned, pocket - sized Chihuahua with the rough-coated, massive-built Newfoundland.

But this article attempts to portray the inner dog - its nature rather than its form. Could there be a greater gap than that existing between the tenacious bulldog that dares to die at grips with a foe and the timorous toy spaniel that would run from a rabbit? Or a greater divergence than between the pointer that, on the run, can tell the difference between the foot scent and the body scent of a quail yards away and the Pekingese whose nose would not tell him, standing still, the difference between a pig and a porcupine a pace distant?

How truly does Maeterlinck put it when he says that in all the immense crucible of nature there is not another living being that has shown the same suppleness of form or plasticity of spirit as that which we soon discover in the dog. It is but natural that concerning a creature so faithful, a being so intimately identified with man's daily existence, an animal possessing so many and such varied qualities that appeal, there should have grown up a literature at once extensive and charming.

But even a casual examination of that literature reveals the fact that it is just as hard for a dog lover to be coldly scientific in telling of the deeds of his dog as it is for a fisherman to measure correctly the length and weight of the individuals that compose his catch.

Perhaps of all dogs the pointer and the setter deserve first rank, because of the exquisite development of their olfactory organs and their astonishing adjustment to the Nimrod's needs. Indeed, one scarcely knows which to admire the more, the immeasurable refinement of their sense of smell or their generalship in the field.

Galloping across a field at ten miles an hour, as he seeks living targets for his master's gun, amid a riot of odors and scents that range from the smell of decaying vegetation to the perfume of autumn flowers, and from the aroma of autumn grass to the body scents and foot tracks of mice and hares and small birds, a well-bred, well-trained pointer can detect a quail at ten paces or more. He can as unerringly pick out the one scent that is uppermost to his purpose as a trained musician can distinguish the one note he seeks in a score.

Not only does he know the quail scent from all others, but he knows the composite scent of several birds from the simple scent of one. Furthermore, he knows instantly the difference between the body scent and the foot scent of a bird. And. still further, he can invariably tell which way the foot scent leads. Did he take the heel of a trail instead of the toe, he would feel that he was surely coming to his second puppyhood.

Furthermore, such a dog can tell the difference between a dead and a wounded bird. If his master kills the quail outright, the dog, without hesitation, rushes in and retrieves it. But if it is only wounded, the dog as promptly comes to a point again and holds his position.

The bloodhound's ability to hit a trail and keep it is one of the marvels of nature. Hours may have passed since the tracks were made. The way may lead through a veritable melange of odors - now down a road where sheep and cattle and hogs and horses have passed, now through a field where rabbits and mice and moles have played, and now, perchance, through a farmyard where chickens and ducks have tracked over every square foot - but the bloodhotkid goes 011, without deviation, toward his quarry.