Old Punch. 



Punch to heel and started for them. When within twenty- 

 five yards of the flock, they flushed and I dropped one with 

 each barrel. The first shot was a clean kill, but the second 

 bird was only winged. Knowing" that Punch would bring in 

 the winged bird first, I determined to test his intelligence. 

 He came trotting in with the bird, and, looking up, wagged 

 his tail for me to take it as usual. I stared straight ahead, 

 as though watching the flock of mallard, but all the time I was 

 watching him out of the corner of my eye. He stood patiently 

 a few moments, then rubbed against my leg. At last, not 

 getting my attention, he placed the wounded bird at my feet, 

 and started off a few steps. Then stopped and looked back 

 to see if I picked it up. The duck had been playing 'possum, 

 and thinking his time had come, made a break for the high 

 weeds. Quick as a flash, Punch was after him, and after a 

 few minutes' trailing, caught him and brought him back. He 

 stood looking up, wagging his tail, rubbed against my legs, 

 and did everything possible to attract my attention, but I did 

 not notice him. He put the bird down again on the ground, 

 and, seizing its head in his mouth, reluctantly crushed it. Then 

 off he went to retrieve the other bird. 



Time and space will not permit me to relate more of these 

 incidents from the life of old Punch, but a valuable lesson 

 can be drawn from what I have related, and I earnestly hope 

 all my young readers who expect to break field dogs may 

 profit by it. In breaking your dog, do not break him at all, 

 but train him. Do not make him your slave; make him rather 

 your friend and companion. Then, in after years, like the 

 dethroned king, you can say: 



"He did not love me for my throne; 



Yet was he patient, fond and brave; 

 He loved me for myself alone. 



He was that good and gracious thing, 

 That rare appendage to a king 



A friend that never played the slave." 



Sports Afield. 

 [61] 



