all day ; he used to be fed once a day in the morn- 

 ings and the great plague of his life was the fowls. 

 They ran loose in the yard and picked up food all day, 

 besides getting a really good feed of grain morning 

 and evening ; possibly the knowledge of this made 

 the old dog particularly angry when they would come 

 round by ones or twos or dozens trying to steal part 

 of his one meal. Anyhow, he hated them, and 

 whenever he got a chance killed them. The old fowls 

 learned to keep out of his way and never ventured 

 within his reach unless they were quite sure that he 

 was asleep or lying in his kennel where he could not 

 see them ; but there were always new fowls coming, 

 or young ones growing up ; and so the war went on. 



One Sunday morning my friend was enjoying a 

 smoke on his back stoep when feeding time came 

 round. The cook took the old dog's food to him in 

 a high three-legged pot, and my friend, seeing the 

 fowls begin to gather round and wishing to let the old 

 dog have his meal in peace, told the cook to give the 

 fowls a good feed in another part of the yard to draw 

 them off. So the old fellow polished off his food 

 and licked the pot clean, leaving not a drop or a speck 

 behind. 



But fowls are very greedy ; they were soon back 

 again wandering about, with their active-looking 

 eyes searching everything. The old dog, feeling 

 pretty satisfied with life, picked out a sandy spot in 

 the sunshine, threw himself down full stretch on his 

 side, and promptly went to sleep at peace with all 

 the world. Immediately he did this, out stepped a 



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