I tell him everything -- I even show him my diary . And it hurts me dreadfully when he does n't tell me things . He shows me all his poems , though -- they are marvellous , Miss Oliver . Oh , I just live in the hope that some day I shall be to Walter what Wordsworth 's sister Dorothy was to him . Wordsworth never wrote anything like Walter 's poems -- nor Tennyson , either . '' `` I would n't say just that . Both of them wrote a great deal of trash , '' said Miss Oliver dryly . Then , repenting , as she saw a hurt look in Rilla 's eye , she added hastily , `` But I believe Walter will be a great poet , too -- some day -- and you will have more of his confidence as you grow older . '' `` When Walter was in the hospital with typhoid last year I was almost crazy , '' sighed Rilla , a little importantly . `` They never told me how ill he really was until it was all over -- father would n't let them . I 'm glad I did n't know -- I could n't have borne it . I cried myself to sleep every night as it was . But sometimes , '' concluded Rilla bitterly -- she liked to speak bitterly now and then in imitation of Miss Oliver -- `` sometimes I think Walter cares more for Dog Monday than he does for me . '' Dog Monday was the Ingleside dog , so called because he had come into the family on a Monday when Walter had been reading Robinson Crusoe . He really belonged to Jem but was much attached to Walter also . He was lying beside Walter now with nose snuggled against his arm , thumping his tail rapturously whenever Walter gave him an absent pat . Monday was not a collie or a setter or a hound or a Newfoundland . He was just , as Jem said , `` plain dog '' -- very plain dog , uncharitable people added . Certainly , Monday 's looks were not his strong point . Black spots were scattered at random over his yellow carcass , one of them , apparently , blotting out an eye .
His ears were XXXXX tatters , for Monday was never successful in affairs of honour .
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