THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND.
CHAPTER I.
I had the excellent fortune, begins Ringwood’s memoir, to be put at walk at a farm-house, where I enjoyed the treatment observed to all the animals under the care and protection of the farmer and his wife—that of universal kindness. Sweet milk, meal, and broth were my provisions; and I never was without a clean, dry, and warm bed. Basking in the sun, playing with the shepherd’s dog, following the men at work, and in a complete state of perfect freedom, my early puppyhood passed. I mention these apparently trifling circumstances, because so much depends, as will be shown hereafter, upon the way in which we are brought up. I was one of a litter of five, consisting of three brothers and two sisters, and each had been placed at a separate walk; so that, until we were sent to the kennel to be drafted, we had not seen each other since the day of separation.
Sorry as I was to leave my kind benefactors, still I felt no small degree of pride as, on a bright, sunny, spring morning, I was led into a court of the kennel, and met with greater admiration from the huntsmen and whips than any other of the young entry therein assembled, consisting of eleven couples and a half.
“Upon my word,” said the huntsman, looking at me carefully from head to stern, “I don’t think that I ever saw such a beauty in my life. Such deep quarters, straight legs, round feet, and broad back are not to be met with every day, mind ye.”
“Look at them shoulders and elbows too,” rejoined the first whip.
“And what a muzzle!” returned the second.
“Bless’d if he ain’t perfect symmetry!” echoed the feeder, after a long and silent gaze.
“I do think he is,” added the huntsman, emphatically. “Or if he isn’t, I can’t see a bad point in him.”