THE GRIFFON BRUXELLOIS
I'm a gay tra, la, la,
With my fal, lal, la, la,
And my bright—
And my light—
Tra, la, la.
Bret Harte.
IF you meet a dashing man about town, with a ferocious beard and moustache, a very much abbreviated nose and an ape-like face, you may be sure that he is a Griffon Bruxellois, or, as he is more familiarly termed, a Brussels Griffon. If his inches are few, and his weight is not more than from five to ten pounds, he has all the militant carriage and gay debonnair of an accomplished worldling. Cheek, impudence, pluck, confidence are all his, mixed with, perhaps, a good deal of braggadocia. A modern High School Miss might even say that he had swank, a word which once excited the curiosity of Mr. Justice Darling when trying a case arising out of an election. With all that innocence permitted to the judicial bench, he enquired if it were a local term peculiar to Lowestoft. I regret to say Counsel seemed to regard it as a vulgar word,
