A FRENCH KENNEL OF HOUNDS. 47 



"What on earth is the matter with Saxon?" I 

 exclaimed. 



** Nothing ; " was the reply. 



" Nothing ! Why, he is dying, and so are three 

 parts of the hounds. All are skeletons, save one or 

 two, who are as fat as prize pigs ; all are more or less 

 eaten up with the mange, and even the best-looking 

 are in no condition. What makes the most of them 

 so thin?" 



'^ I don't know : they eat what they like." 



" What makes that one so fat?" 



" I don't know : he has the same chance as the 

 others." 



" How do you feed them?" 



" We let them all in together." 



" Good Heaven ! What do you let them eat?" 



" Barley bread, soaked in hot water." 



"No flesh?" 



" Oh yes, sometimes." 



" Well, the hounds are dying : how do you account 

 for it?" 



" Oh, perhaps some very hot weather. We took 

 them out the other day to an attack of young wolves, 

 and, after a time, they all lay down ; and they have 

 looked bad ever since." 



Reader, dear brother huntsman, will you believe it. 



