562 
FANCIERS’ JOURNAL AND POULTRY EXCHANGE. 

contributor to the Field says, ‘‘that the Lyme Hall race 
takes us back to the remotest ascertained record, and brings 
us nearer to the original indigenous type; and is therefore 
the best evidence of its purity, and that this race is still pre- 
served at Lyme intact, and has been handed down as an heir- 
loom with its magnificent estatés.’”? ‘In the grand draw- 
ing-room window, amid the blazon of heraldry, showing the 
quarterings of the arms of the illustrious families with whom 
the Leghs have intermarried, may still be seen the portrait 
of Sir Percy Legh, Knight Baronet, who fought at Agin- 
court, and also the likeness of the mastiff bitch who is al- 
leged to have defended him from the assaults of camp ma- 
rauders, who would have murdered and robbed him as he lay 
bleeding on the field of battle. The legend is that while the 
wedding festivities of Sir Percy were being celebrated at 
Lyme, a herald from his personal friend, Henry V, sum- 
moned him to attend his majesty to the French wars. Leav- 
ing his bride he departed at once, and took with him his 
magnificent mastiff bitch, a race of dogs for which the family 
were even then celebrated. He saved the king’s life at the 
sacrifice of his own; and while he lay exhausted on the field 
of battle after the fight he was defended from his assailants 
so vigorously by his mastiff bitch that she kept them at bay 
and attracted the attention of some English soldiers, who 
bore the wounded knight off the field and conveyed him 
with his faithful mastiff to Paris, where she whelped and 
Sir Percy died. He was taken home to Lyme for interment, 
and the bitch and her whelps were brought also in the 
funeral train. From these the Lyme dogs are direct descend- 
ants.’’ Mr. Kingdon of Willhayne bred from M. Legh’s 
kennels, by his consent. Mr. Karl, the celebrated animal 
painter, urged Mr. Kingdon to paint his dog Barry, as a 
study of mastiff purity. The opinion of this eminent artist 
in favor of the purity of the Lyme House breed is also shared 
in by Mr. Ansdell and Mr. Keyl, artists of high order, both 
of whom recommended Mr. Hanbury to keep the Lyme race 
in preference to any other strain. Their opinions are said 
to be confirmed by the fact that Idstone, when acting as 
judge at Plymouth show, 1870, gave Barry first prize; and 
Bill George, Jr., gave him first prize at Exeter, where he 
weighed 162 pounds. He also won first from Colchester and 
Westward Ho; 3890 guineas were offered for him. Mr. 
Kingdon relates a very interesting anecdote of his original 
bitch Alp—which Mr. Hanbury bred from by his Champion 
Prince—which proves the great intelligence and love of the 
mastiff. He says: ‘‘ I was walking over a lonely road for 
several miles, on a dark November night, when the bitch 
walked round me in wide circles, keeping guard in the rear 
as well as in advance, never going beyond springing distance 
from me, so determined was she to protect me.’ He says 
that soon after the London and Southwestern Railway was 
opened to Exeter, a party of ‘‘cracksmen” came down from 
London and commenced operations in Devon, sending out 
spies in divers disguises and under various pretexts to notice 
plans of houses, &c. There was reason to believe that the 
men that came to Willhayne under pretence of selling cloth 
were couriers of this party. In appearance they were re- 
spectable, but asked questions which excited suspicion. It 
appears, too, the bitch had her suspicions, despite their re- 
spectable exterior; for it was afterward ascertained that 
when they came to the yard gates she quietly walked up to 
one of the party, neither barked nor growled, nor attempted 
to injure him, but deliberately took him firmly but gently 
( To be continued.) 




Pouttry DEPARTMENT: 
WHY THE ROOSTER WOULDN'T DIE. 
.LisTEN, my boy, and you shall know, 
A thing that happened a time long ago, 
When I was a boy, not as large as you, 
And the youngest of all the children, too.” 
I laugh even now as I think it o’er, 
And the more J think, I laugh the more. 
’T was the children eve of an autumn day, 
We were all in the kitchen, cheery and gay. 
The fire burned bright on the old brick hearth, 
And its cheerful light gave zest to our mirth ; 
My eldest sister, addressing me, 
And stopping at once my mirthful glee; 
‘ To-morrow’s Thanksgiving, you know,’’ said she; 
‘‘ We must kill the chickens to-night you see. 
Now light the lantern and come with me, 
I will wring their necks until they are dead, 
And have them all dressed ere we go to bed.”’ 
So the old huge lantern made of tin, 
Punched full of holes, and a candle within, 
Put in its appearance in a shorter time 
Than it takes to make this jingling rhyme. 
We started off and the way I led, 
For a raid on the chickens under the shed ; 
A pile of roots filled the open space, 
This makes a splendid roosting place ; 
And a motly tribe of domestic fowls 
Sat perched there as grave and demure as owls. 
My sister, unused to scenes of blood, 
And pale with excitement, trembling stood ; 
But sammoning courage, she laid her plans 
And seized the old rooster with both her hands, 
And with triumph written all over her face 
Her victim bore to an open space. 
Then she wrung and wrung with might and main, 
And wrung and twisted and wrung again, 
Till sure that the spark of life had fled, 
She threw him down on the ground for dead. 
But the rooster would not consent to die 
And be made up into a chicken-pie, 
So he made away with a cackle and bound 
Almost as soon as he touched the ground, 
And hiding away from the candle’s light, 
Escaped the slaughter of that dark night. 
My sister, thus brought to a sudden stand, 
And looking at what she held in her hand, 
Soon saw why the rooster was not dead— 
She had wrung off his tail instead of his head! 

