Wully 



me valley above Jo's inn, and that fact was not 

 without weight in bringing me to Monsaldale. 

 His master, Dorley, farmed in a small way on 

 the lowland, and on the moors had a large 

 number of sheep. These Wully guarded with 

 his old-time sagacity, watching them while they 

 fed and bringing them to the fold at night. He 

 was reserved and preoccupied for a dog, and 

 rather too ready to show his teeth to strangers, 

 but he was so unremitting in his attention to 

 his flock that Dorley did not lose a lamb that 

 year, although the neighboring farmers paid the 

 usual tribute to eagles and to foxes. 



The dales are poor fox-hunting country at 

 best. The rocky ridges, high stone walls, and 

 precipices are too numerous to please the riders, 

 and the final retreats in the rocks are so plenti- 

 ful that it was a marvel the foxes did not over- 

 run Monsaldale. But they didn't. There had 

 been but little reason for complaint until the 

 year 1881, when a sly old fox quartered him- 

 self on the fat parish, like a mouse inside a 

 cheese, and laughed equally at the hounds of 

 the huntsmen and the lurchers of the farmers. 



He was several times run by the Peak hounds. 

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