Tito 



It must not be supposed that, in all this, 

 Tito was a sweet, innocent victim. She had 

 learned to bite. She had caught and killed 

 several chickens by shamming sleep while they 

 ventured to forage within the radius of her 

 chain. And she had an inborn hankering to 

 sing a morning and evening hymn, which pro- 

 cured for her many beatings. But she learned 

 to shut up, the moment her opening notes were 

 followed by a rattle of doors or windows, for 

 these sounds of human nearness had frequently 

 been followed by a "bang" and a charge of 

 bird-shot, which somehow did no serious harm, 

 though it severely stung her hide. And these 

 experiences all helped to deepen her terror of 

 guns and of those who used them. The object 

 of these musical outpourings was not clear. 

 They happened usually at dawn or dusk, but 

 sometimes a loud noise at high noon would set 

 her going. The song consisted of a volley of 

 short barks, mixed with doleful squalls that 

 never failed to set the Dogs astir in a responsive 

 uproar, and once or twice had begotten a far- 

 away answer from some wild Coyote in the hills. 



There was one little trick that she had de- 

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