THE DAILY LIFE OF OUR FARM. 61 



me, particularly one morning some weeks since, on our 

 approach, out shooting, to a place that seemed likely to 

 hold game, or at least a rabbit. Not he — this pet 

 terrier, with a touch of spaniel in him, as good a dog 

 as ever was shot to — he will not look. With a single 

 half-sniff he canters by ; and when you call him, once, 

 twice, rather sternly this time, he comes coaxingly up ; 

 but when you "hie " him in, such a reproachful look 

 he directs you, such a deprecatory glance of his melan- 

 choly eyes, as though he would fain say, " Now, you 

 wouldn't have me stultify myself by doing more ; " but, 

 as man should, being master of the creation, when we 

 insist, then in he goes, and sniffs and searches, but 

 makes no sign of the hoped-for presence, and the place 

 is clearly void. The keeper hints that after the last 

 night's storm no creature could be expected to lie in 

 that cover under the falling leaves and boughs. Then, 

 doggie, as you feel constrained to pat him, and say, 

 •" good dog ! " — then don't he wink his eye internally ? 

 and don't he keep on bobbing around, and altogether 

 looking so delighted as though, while feeling he must be 

 civil for his victuals' sake, still he were very much 

 inclined to ask his master " Where ever were you riz ? " 

 " Who's who in '6Q ? " or any other such like intel- 

 lectual but insulting query. We on our part are glad 

 of a diversion, and so we charge, " Hie on, lad," and he 

 leaves us to reflect not only on that old stern inquiry 

 where instinct ends and reason begins, but also more 

 deeply upon the marvellous gift of scent, which engaged 

 our pen above, and which again falls tame beside the 

 sense that guides the condor of the Andes from beyond 

 the horizon long miles to a feast upon the failing mule. 

 Then comes a further reflection. These animals must 



