“No, you would not,” said Happy, decidedly. “Silver Tongue, the biggest foxhound, could not. Ah, yes, we had good sport sometimes, all through the swamp woods trailing for rabbits though we never got any, and do you know, Silver Tongue told me once that they tied the smell up in a bag and dragged it on the ground just to make us run, and there was no rabbit!
“One day, though, they took me with some older dogs to track real rabbits, for I saw them and I had run one into a fence corner, and it turned round and looked at me, when such an awful noise came down upon my head I thought the sky had fallen. I forgot the rabbit and fell over for my head ached terribly. Martin picked me up and rubbed my head and wrapped me in his coat, then everything was still. It has been so ever since, pleasant and quiet. When I felt better I saw Martin’s gun was broken and burst, and now I have to see with my eyes what people want of me, for my ears catch nothing.
“There was always sport, too, when new dogs came, either to live or board with us. They didn’t know the rules and so of course they made lots of mistakes. Sometimes they felt sulky and would not eat their supper because they didn’t know that there was no breakfast, and they would cry and beg, and if Miss Jule came by she would understand and give them some, but Martin only went by rule.
“You know the open shed up at Hilltop where the log-wood is kept, and the old grindstone? for we’ve often chased squirrels up the back of it. That shed is in the puppy yard, and the boxes that dogs travel in are kept there. We pups used to have great sport lying there in the shade to watch the boxes brought in and out, and see who came, who went away.
“We all thought it would be fun to go travelling and often scrambled in and out of them, but if Martin shut the door we were frightened, and glad enough to be loose again. The boxes were not tight but opened and latticed like hen-coops, and they called them dog crates. It was a fine thing at the end of summer to see the crates brought out and cleaned, and the old dogs, setters, hounds, and spaniels, who had been away before for the hunting, go nearly wild with joy at sight of them, and clamour for the start.
“The youngsters who had never been, and thought the crate a punishment, trembled at first, but the others explained, and so all through the autumn there was coming, going, and excitement.
“Sometimes, on fine days, Miss Jule would come with an apronful of dog-bread, and throw the bits for us to catch, and that day was held a great festival. For the one who jumped the highest, or caught the quickest, would get an extra bit, or be taken out to spend the day at the house, and have its dinner with Mr. Wolf, Miss Jule’s very own best dog, and Tip, the head retriever. When these dogs came back to the kennels, though, there was always a row, for they felt so very fine and big, and bragged so about what they had seen, and the dozens of bones they had gnawed or buried, that finally, we who were neither quick nor clever could not bear it, so we agreed that whenever a dog came back from running free we would all bark together so loud that not a word of what he said could be heard.
“Flo, the English setter, one of my best friends, who lives up there still, tells me that times are much better now, for Miss Letty takes a great interest in the dogs, and every morning, as soon as she has had breakfast, she comes to the fence of the front yard, bringing a basket of dog-bread. She gives a whistle, and when the dogs are all collected then she begins throwing them bread, bit by bit, aiming it so carefully that even the stupidest, slowest dog of them gets at least one piece. Then sometimes she will go inside the fence of the big field and throw a ball for the dogs to chase, and Flo says that when Miss Letty calls the dog who wins by name, or praises him, he likes it better than a bone, and wags away like mad. So now the kennel dogs have two things a day to look forward to, supper at night, and Miss Letty in the morning.”
“I call that a very stupid life,” said Waddles, yawning and stretching in his turn; “isn’t there any real hunting or real fun?”