88 THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, 
ready to hamstring or disable them before they recover 
from their stupor. When the hunters can no longer pro- 
voke them to rush on the stuffed tigers, &c., they make 
signals to those over-head, to throw lighted flambeaux 
amongst them. This causes them to make a desperate 
effort to escape, and when the Indians have hurled a suffi- 
cient number down the precipice, they suffer the females 
and the fawns, and some of the bucks, to escape. Indeed, 
they seem very much averse to destroying a doe at all, and 
always liberate the doe fawns. In those excursions they 
take on an average from four to five hundred. In taking the 
Ciervo Grande, or Large Stag, they seldom get more than 
from thirty to fifty; but of the¢Mountain-Goat they catch 
an immense number; they enter the caverns in the rocks 
by night, and pursue them by torch-light; and frequently 
yoke a great many of them together alive, although the 
flesh loses its flavour from the effort to domesticate them, 
and they scarcely ever lose their native wildness. A full- 
grown Fallow-Deer could be bought at Valencia for seven 
pisettos, or five shillings British. During the hunting 
season the Creoles sometimes hunt, but the Indians are 
more expert.—Monthly Mag. 
ANECDOTE OF A DOG. 
A Frencu merchant, having some money due from a 
correspondent, set out on horseback, accompanied by his 
Dog, on purpose to receive it. Having settled the busi- 
ness to his satisfaction, he tied the bag of money before 
him, and began to return home. His faithful Dog, as if he 
entered into his master’s feelings, frisked round the horse, 
barked and jumped, and seemed to participate his joy. 
The merchant, after riding some miles, alighted to re- 
pose himself under an agreeable shade, and, taking the bag 
of money in his hand, laid it down by his side, under a 
hedge, andon remounting, forgot it. The Dog perceived 
his lapse of recollection, and wishing to rectify it, ran to 
fetch the bag; but it was too heavy for him to drag along. 
He then ran to his master, and, by crying, barking, and 
howling, seemed to remind him of his mistake. The mer- 
chant understood not his language, but the assiduous crea- 
ture persevered in its efforts, and, after trying to stop the 
horse in vain, at last began to bite his heels. 
The merchant, absorbed in some reverie, wholly over- 
looked the real object of his affectionate attendant’s im- 
portunity, but entertained the alarming apprehension that 
he was gone mad. Full of this suspicion, in crossing a 
brook, he turned back to look if the Dog would drink. 
The animal was too intent on his master’s business to 
think of itself; it continued to bark and bite with greater 
violence than before. 
‘‘Mercy!” cried the afflicted merchant, ‘it must be 
so; my poor Dog is certainly mad; what must I do? I 
must kill him, lest some greater misfortune befal me: 
but with what regret! Oh, could I find any one to per- 
form this cruel office for me! but there is no time to lose; 
I myself may soon become the victim if I spare him.” 
With these words, he drew a pistol from his pocket, and, 
with a trembling hand, took aim at his faithful servant. 
He turned away in agony as he fired; but his aim was too 
sure. The poor animal fell wounded, and, weltering in 
his blood, still endeayoured to crawl towards his master, 
as if to tax him with ingratitude. The merchant could not 
bear the sight; he spurred on his horse with a heart full of 
sorrow, and lamented that he had taken a journey which 
had cost him so dear. Still, however, the money never 
entered his mind; he only thought of his poor Dog, and 
tried to console himself with the reflection that he had 
prevented a greater evil, by despatching a mad animal, 
than he had suffered a calamity by his loss. This opiate 
to his wounded spirit, however, was ineffectual. ‘¢I am 
most unfortunate,’’? said he to himself, ‘“‘I had almost 
rather lost my money than my Dog.” Saying this, he 
stretched out his hand to grasp his treasure. It was miss- 
ing!—no bag was to be found. In an instant he opened 
his eyes to his rashness and folly. ‘* Wretch that I am! 
I alone am to blame! I could not comprehend the admo- 
nition which my innocent and most faithful friend gave me, 
and I have sacrificed him for his zeal. He only wished to 
inform me of my mistake, and he has paid for his fidelity 
with his life.”’ 
Instantly he turned his horse, and went off at full gallop 
to the place where he had stopped. He saw, with half- 
averted eyes, the scene where the tragedy was acted; he 
perceived the traces of blood as he proceeded; he was op- 
pressed and distracted; but in vain did he look for his 
Dog,—he was not to be seen on the road. At last he ar- 
rived at the spot where he had alighted. But what were 
his sensations! His heart was ready to bleed; he exeerated 
himself in the madness of despair. The poor Dog, unable 
to follow his dear but cruel master, had determined to 
consecrate his last moments to his service. He had 
crawled, all bloody as he was, to the forgotten bag, and, in 
the agonies of death, he lay watching beside it. When he 
saw his master, he still testified his joy by the wagging of 
his tail—he could do no more—he tried to rise, but his 
strength was gone. The vital tide was ebbing fast; even 
the caresses of his master could not prolong his fate for a 
few moments. He stretched out his tongue to lick the 
