THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND. 119 



and sense as a flock of cackling geese. It's a 

 strange thing, too," continued he, " that 

 what they see in one case, forms no precedent 

 or guide to their addlepated brains in another. 

 I don't mean to compare pointers, or setters, 

 or greyhounds with us, of course; but they 

 never get blood, and yet they take as much 

 pleasure in their work, and are as eager to 

 find game, as if every bird shot over them 

 was plucked, roasted, and served up in rich 

 gravy, on silver, for their suppers. Now, it 

 is quite clear that they don't hunt for blood, 

 and, therefore, why should we? It is true 

 that we look for it at the finish from habit, 

 and because we are cheered even to take it, 

 and I never feel wilder than when Tom and 

 Ted are who-whoo^ping over us; but, to say 

 that we absolutely require blood, is all 

 nonsense." 



'* But the more we kill, the greater kill- 

 devils we become," said I. 



** That's true, " added my companion. ''As 

 in everything else, the supreme gratification 

 lies in securing the object sought to be gained, 

 and the running into our fox is ours. The 

 same rule would apply to our killing but 

 seldom, and consequently being generally 



