[XLIX.—A Rabbit Chase]
This morning after the chores were done I decided that I should take a look at the young orchard to see that mice and rabbits were not damaging the little trees. The sun was shining, and as most of the snow disappeared in the recent thaw it was the best day for a ramble that we have had since winter began. And I am glad that I went, for I not only enjoyed the fresh air but had a few minutes of excitement that started the blood coursing in my veins. Sheppy decided that he would like a ramble too, and thereby hangs a tale. While I was examining the trees he made little excursions about the field nosing for mice. While I was rejoicing that there were none for him to find and because there were no rabbit tracks I almost stepped on a little cotton-tail that had a form in a bunch of wild grass that was shaded by a big weed. The rabbit popped out, and at the same instant I yelled, "Sic him!" Sheppy was a few rods away, but when he saw the game he let out one quick, yapping bark and gave chase. The rabbit had started towards a haystack at the other side of the field, but when the dog took after him he changed his mind and began to circle towards the south. He looked like a streak of brown fur, and about four rods behind him Sheppy looked like a streak of black and white. Both stretched themselves out until their bellies seemed to touch the ground, but my eye could not detect any change in the distance between them. Neither seemed to gain an inch. They kept it up for about thirty rods and then Sheppy stumbled over a corn stubble and lost a few feet. The race went on in absolute silence until they reached the wire fence at the road. The rabbit slipped through and Sheppy had to stop. He ran around and barked with rage as his quarry scooted up a neighbour's lane and disappeared among some piles of rails. I then had time to examine the cosy form where the rabbit had been resting. After noting how nicely it was lined with grass I ruthlessly kicked it to pieces, for rabbits are not to be encouraged in a young orchard. I could not find that he had done any damage, but I am not taking any chances, and this afternoon I am going to take the rifle and Sheppy and hunt through the orchard carefully. After the race was over Sheppy was so much ashamed of his failure that he went back to the house without coming near me. When I got home he thrust his muzzle into my hand and wagged his tail and tried to make me understand that rabbits are not in his line. A slow-footed woodchuck suits him better. But I am going to train him to chase rabbits, even if he cannot catch them, for if he keeps them moving they may decide that they are not popular here and move away to some one else's orchard.
[L.—Fights and Feuds]
I don't know why it is, but every time there is something interesting going on, like a political meeting or a dog-fight, I am always away from home or I have a previous engagement of some kind. Here is Sheppy having a whole series of fights to maintain the supremacy of the farm, the freedom of the concession line, and his place in the sun, and I haven't seen one of them. According to the uncensored and detailed reports I have received, the fights were well worth seeing, and Sheppy acquitted himself in a creditable manner. The trouble is all due to a couple of dogs belonging to a gang of ditchers working in the neighbourhood. These dogs—a big hound and a little terrier—have done so much coon-hunting in their day that they consider themselves at liberty to roam wherever they please. Several times they insolently crossed our fields and that is something that Sheppy will not stand for. Any dog that ventures on this farm has to put up a fight for the privilege. Up to date Sheppy has defended his dominions successfully, but in all previous battles he has had to deal with one dog at a time. But it seems that the present invaders have learned in many coon-fights that team play is best and their tactics have been surprising and somewhat discomfiting. Sheppy scorns to attack the terrier, which wouldn't make a decent mouthful for him, but when he grapples with the hound the terrier catches him by a hind leg or by the tail, and as I guess a little dog's bite hurts just as much as a big one's, Sheppy can't give his undivided attention to the hound. I am told that in the first scrap he kept whirling around distributing his bites impartially and managed to chase both the other dogs off the farm, but in later attacks they worried him some. When I came home he whimpered around me and showed me his scratched nose and tried his best to tell me about his troubles. He had done his best to protect the farm during my absence at the village, and it was quite evident from his manner that he thought he deserved some praise and petting. I sympathised with him entirely, but I half regret that the ditchers have moved on with their dogs. I shall not have a chance to see Sheppy in action with two dogs. But I never have any luck.