AND AMERICAN RURAL SPORTS. 21 
breath; and human affections, cemented by many a kind 
and liberal act, and strengthened by many a worthy deed 
in the intercourse of life, too often are estranged by a sin- 
gle thoughtless word spoken in anger, or by some sudden 
and calamitous reverse of fortune. But the attachment 
of our dumb friend and follower is often far more enduring 
and disinterested. He will sustain neglect, will submit to 
hardship and starvation, and yet continue faithful and 
affectionate to the last, following his lord through all his 
adversities, from the very pinnacle of his affluence to the 
depths of degradation and poverty. 
Here, we will venture to insert a few rough lines in- 
tended to commemorate the virtues of a departed favourite; 
and if they offend the refined taste of any of your rea- 
ders and contributors, we will only request them, just to sit 
down and write better, to suit themselves. 
Thy master, by the woodland tree 
Has made thy simple grave, poor Tray! 
It is the latest rite, which he, 
Can to thy humble relics pay. 
Thy bones have had a decent bier; 
Thy memory, an honest tear. 
The greenest spot in all the wood, 
I’ve chosen for thy place of rest, 
°Tis sheltered from the North-wind rude; 
?Tis open to the sweet South-west; 
And summer suns will love to shine 
Upon that verdant mound of thine. 
Full many an hour have we, my dog, 
Beguiled in this obscure retreat, 
I, loitering on yon weed-grown log, 
Thou revelling in this clover-sweet, 
—No more we come, for thou hast pass’d 
That bourne which I must reach at last. 
And shall that bright regardful eye 
Ne’er watch thy master’s rest again, 
And shall that blithe, rejoicing cry, 
Ne’er startle these deep woods again; 
Ne’er rouse the feeding partridge more, 
Or wild-duck on the lonely shore! 
No, it is hushed in silence deep, 
—Corruption’s awful quietness! 
And the bright eye is shut in sleep, 
The slumber of forgetfulness! 
Thy frolics, and thy sports no more 
Will charm as they have charmed of yore. 
But summer birds will visit thee 
And sing their sweet songs at thy grave; 
The robin’s tuneful melody 
Will mingle with the passing wave 
Which whispers by thy turfy cell, 
—The winding brook thou loved’st so well. 
EF 
The wind-flower and the violet 
Thou spared’st for their rich perfume, 
Will in the spring-time not forget 
To hang their blossoms o’er thy tomb; 
And sometimes to thy lowly bed 
Thy master’s footstep will be led. 
There are numerous anecdotes which serve to illustrate 
the sagacity and fidelity of this noble animal in our pos- 
session, and which, if we continue to furnish further ex- 
tracts from our diary, we shall gladly insert, for we do not 
think that a proper measure of respect and regard has been 
at any time accorded to him. However he may be 
esteemed by the world at large, to the sportsman he is in- . 
valuable, and whatever may be said relative to his nature, 
qualities and habits, cannot be, on the whole, uninterest- 
ing. M. 
[ To be continued. | 
A DAY’S HUNT ON THE BLUE MOUNTAIN, 
OR, MY FIRST ESSAY AFTER DEER. 
Dear 
No doubt you are still plodding away at the dull pur- 
suits of a city life, in your dusty old corner,—yawning, 
and stretching your tired limbs, a very slave, cursing your 
hard fate,—whilst here am I, amongst the wild scenes of 
nature, another Leather-stocking, blessing the ‘‘ Great 
giver of life’’ that there is air to breathe in freedom from the 
constraints of civilization;—regions where the laws of the 
white-skins have scarcely reached, and where the wild 
creturs of the woods can sport unharmed ;—scenes so wild 
and rough and rugged, that we cannot but cry shame on 
the tame pencils, that pourtray nature as flat as a floor, and 
withal smooth, neat, and pretty. Why here I stand, on 
the point of a mountain-ridge, that the rain has centuries 
ago, washed clear of every thing like earth, leaving no- 
thing but loose rocks, tumbled one on another; and out 
from among them grow, crooked, gnarled trees, bare of 
leaves at this season,—their rough, broken bark covered 
with moss, which hangs like fringe from every limb,— 
the rocks also are spread over with the same pensive garb. 
It is, indeed, a moss-covered spot; every thing is tinted 
with its colouring, grey, hoary, and ancient. This univer- 
sal sombre tone has this moment changed to one of golden 
hue; for the sun has burst through the thick clouds, and 
brightly pictures every thing at hand on the dark back 
ground of the opposite mountain, and the deep black hol- 
low where the Mahanoy flows, unseen, some hundred 
