CHAPTER XIII. 



** Now the hill, the hedge, are green, 

 Now the warbler's throat's in tune, 

 Blithsome is the verdant scene. 

 Brightened by the beams of noon." 



It was a sultry summer's day, and Trim- 

 bush and myself were luxuriating under the 

 wide-spreading and deep shade of a walnut 

 tree growing near the kennel. Five or six of 

 our companions, on the free list, like our- 

 selves, were lounging about in the coolest 

 spots, and their only occasional signs of life, 

 as they laid upon the ground, consisted in 

 brushing the buzzing flies from their nostrils 

 and hides, and, now and then, making a snap 

 at their enemies. Wearied, at length, with 

 my own laziness, I made an effort to draw 



