MISCELLANY. 
107 
neighs aloud and in a peculiar tone, which rouses the herd, and all gallop away, 
the sentinel bringing up the rear. Nothing can be more judicious or rational 
than this arrangement, simple as it is. So a Horse, belonging to a smuggler at 
Dover, used to be laden with spirits, and sent on the road unattended to reach 
the rendezvous. When he descried a soldier he would jump off the highway, and 
hide himself in a ditch, and when discovered would fight for his load.—The cun¬ 
ning of Foxes is proverbial; but I know not if it was ever more remarkably 
displayed than in the Duke of Beaufort’s country, where Reynard, being hard 
pressed, disappeared suddenly, and was, after strict search, found immersed in a 
water-pool up to the very snout, by which he held a Willow-bough hanging over 
the pond.—The cunning of a Dog, which Serjeant Wilde tells me of, as known 
to him, is at least equal. He used to be tied up, as a precaution against hunting 
Sheep. At night he slipped his head out of the collar, and returning before dawn 
put on the collar again, in order to conceal his nocturnal excursion. Nobody has 
more familiarity with various animals (besides his great knowledge of his own 
species) than my excellent, learned, and ingenious friend, the Serjeant; and he 
possesses many curious ones himself. His anecdote of a drover s Dog is striking, 
as he gave it me when we happened, near this place, to meet a drove. The man 
had brought 17 out of 20 oxen from a field, leaving the remaining three there 
mixed with another herd. He then said to the Dog, <c Go fetch themand he 
went and singled out those very three. The Serjeant’s brother, however, a highly 
respectable man, lately Sheriff of London, has a Dog that distinguishes Saturday 
night, from the practice of tying him up for the Sunday, which he dislikes. He 
will escape on Saturday night, and return on Monday morning. The Serjeant 
himself had a gander which was at a distance from the goose, and hearing her 
make an extraordinary noise, ran back and put his head into the cage—then 
brought back all the goslings one by one, and put them into it with the mother, 
whose separation from her brood had occasioned her clamour. He then returned 
to the place whence her cries had called him.—Lord Brougham. 
Preservation of Birds. —From the readiness with which you give insertion 
in your valuable periodical to any matter, however trifling, which has for its object 
the advancement of zoological knowledge, I am induced to trouble you with the 
following remarks, which, though not of a strictly scientific nature, are sufficiently 
connected with it to be of interest to the ornithologist, and particularly to those 
who, either from pleasure or business, employ themselves in mounting the skins 
of dried specimens. 
In order to get the dried bird into shape, it is necessary to relax the skin by the 
introduction of damp cloths or cotton; the rigidity of the feet and bill must also 
be removed by some similar expedient. This latter circumstance has given me 
great inconvenience, for in nine cases out of ten, when the wet cloths were 
removed, the claws and beaks crumbled into dust, leaving nothing but the naked 
