THE OLD BLACK- AND-TAN TERRIER. 185 



had been killed and buried in different parts of the 

 asparagus-bed, and there was no doubt but that 

 Whankey was the culprit, not only in the matter 

 of the ducklings but in that of the cockerel the 

 year before. The extraordinary thing was that 

 she should have picked out all the white ducks — 

 those I had fed and cared for in order to accustom 

 them to their change of home — and not touched 

 the others. She must have run each duckling 

 down separately and carried it off and buried it, 

 and then returned to go through the same process 

 again. Poor Whankey was soon ashamed of her 

 exploit, and whenever the story of her misdeeds 

 was told before her, and any one said to her, 

 " Whankey, where are the white ducks ? " she 

 would always get up and walk away growling. 



I have many tales to tell of my little favourite, 

 and in the field, as I have said, she was the best 

 worker I had. One day I had the terrier pack 

 out, and they were hunting a rabbit in a hedge 

 where there were no earths. They were running 

 gaily, when suddenly they threw up. Backwards 

 and forwards they cast, but they could make 

 nothing of it. At last Whankey, who had re- 

 fused, as she always did, to go a yard without 

 the line, suddenly put her head in the air, and 

 staring up into an ivy -covered tree, gave a suc- 

 cession of sharp barks. The others hunted back 

 to her, but still they could make nothing of it. 

 Whankey, however, persisted in standing on her 

 hind-legs and sniffing at the tree till old Nettle 



