1 8 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME, 



given up hope of finding any more birds, the dog 

 suddenly seemed weary. His legs dragged and 

 settled to a pace suitable for a snail's funeral. 

 On he went, with young Frank waddling solemnly 

 along in the rear as if an old hand at the business. 

 Rod after rod Don crept, sneaking under fallen 

 logs, winding cautiously around tree-tops, crawl- 

 ing through cat-briers, sniffing the air gingerly 

 with twitching nostrils; Frank following with 

 funereal tread : but neither pointing. On they 

 go one hundred yards, then fifty more with pace 

 becoming slower; but still they do not stop. 

 Don's pace settles to a crawl, with the wavy 

 motion of his tail almost ceasing, yet on he goes, 

 and Frank, so well born that he scarcely needs 

 breaking, creeps thievishly along, full thirty feet 

 in the rear. 



From a bunch of briers a few feet from Don's 

 nose a hare scatters the dry leaves with rapid 

 foot. Chasing a hare was the only weakness of 

 that good old dog, and no amount of thrashing 

 or failures to catch a hare ever taught him the 

 inexpediency of the pursuit. But now with con- 

 temptuous glance at the bit of flickering wool 

 he goes straight on. Down in the shade, along 



