A handsome dog was seated on the ground; suddenly it laid one of its paws on its master's knee.
"Down, Perro," said he.
"Perro!" said I; "why do you call the dog Perro ?" "We call him Perro," said the man, "because his name is Perro." "But how came you to give him that name ?" said I.
"We did not give it to him," said the man--"he bore that name when he came into our hands; a farmer gave him to us when he was very young, and told us his name was Perro." "And how came the farmer to call him Perro ?" said I.
"I don't know," said the man--"why do you ask ?" "Perro," said I, "is a Spanish word, and signifies a dog in general.

I am rather surprised that a dog in the mountains of Wales should be called by the Spanish word for dog." I fell into a fit of musing.

"How Spanish words are diffused! Wherever you go you will find some Spanish word or other in use.

I have heard Spanish words used by Russian mujiks and Turkish fig-gatherers--I have this day heard a Spanish word in the mountains of Wales, and I have no doubt that were I to go to Iceland I should find Spanish words used there.

How can I doubt it; when I reflect that more than six hundred years ago, one of the words to denote a bad woman was Spanish.