MY OLD DOQ TRIM. 



IT is with mingled f , elings of pleasure and regret that I take 

 up my pen to write the biography of my old dog Trim, 

 alas! long since translated to the happy hunting grounds. 

 Peace b j with him, and may his future be as pleasant as the 

 days spent on earth. May he find in those spirit woodlands 

 numberless ruffed grouse, and oltain for a companion some 

 congenial human spirit to roam with him their grateful 

 shade until I shall come. Then will his cup of happiness 

 ever overflow, and the reward so well earned here be his. 



Trim was rather an ordinary looking-pointer, of the old 

 Spanish type. His sire came from Cuba, and was said to be 

 from stock that had been kept pure for more than a hundred 

 years. He was so staunch that he was worthless for hunt- 

 ing as the first scent of game that he struck would invariably 

 freeze him stiff, and nothing could stir him except brute 

 force. I have frequently flushed and killed the bird to his 

 point, and after ga'hering it, and showing it to him and 

 vainly trying to induce him to move on— he all the while 

 perfectly rigid— I have taken him by the collar and dragged 

 him many rods away, only to have him, invariably, as soon 

 as I let go of him, rush back to where he found the scent, 

 resume his point to stay there, unless f jrced away, so long 

 as the least vestige of taint was in tho ar. I have known 

 him to remain for hours, as I several times left him to his 

 fate, and wou'd seldom see him until the next morning. I 

 bred him to a very good-looking lemon and white bitch, very 

 fast and a good fielder, but rather too delicite for rrugh 

 work. The result was a fine litter of eight. I selected the 

 subject of the sketch and christened him Trim. He was the 

 best dog the world ever produced, and the best one that I 

 ever saw. Hold on! I believe I have got that standard 

 quotation a little mixed, but as it is gospel truth let it stand. 



