“Oh,” replied one of my brothers, snappishly, “I was sent to the village ale-house, where I had to pick up my own living, and got more kicks than good will. I was always in somebody’s way, try as I did to keep out of it; and the consequence is, I can’t run a mile without feeling as if my back’s broken. We don’t always die on the day we are killed,” continued he. “As for me,” said my other fraternal relative--a mangy, out-of-the-elbow, shy-looking, down-cast hound--“I was tied up from one month’s end to another at a butcher’s shop, with nothing to eat but the offal from the slaughter-house. I never, scarcely, was let loose, except to fight with one of the bull-dogs or terriers chained in the yard with me; but as I was always over-matched when I fought, and got well thrashed when I refused, the end was the same in either case. The best part of a hound,” continued he, “as the best part of a horse, goes in at the mouth; and as none, since I was a sucker, has gone into mine, I suppose I must consider myself no better than I should be; and I fear,” concluded he, with a sorrowful expression, “not so good.” “Let me hope that my sisters were more fortunate,” said I. “We were together in the same village,” replied one, “although at different homes. I was at the saddler’s and my sister at the miller’s, and both shared the common hardships of being continually worried by a set of idle boys. Stoned, hallooed at, kettles tied to our tails, and all kinds of tricks were played upon us. Whenever anything eatable was missed or stolen, it was invariably laid to our charge; so that we could not even put our heads into a doorway without having a stick or a broom flung at us. Day after day this was our treatment, and although we did not suffer from a scarcity of food, yet from being obliged to shift for ourselves in getting beds where we could find them, sometimes cold, sometimes wet, and no system being observed in either our meals or lodgings, we were seldom without lameness or ill-health of one kind or other.” My sister was about giving the further details of their grievances, when the second whip, a fine, young, athletic man, interrupted her narration by observing that “he would draft all the litter but me.” “No, no,” returned the feeder, shaking his head. “You’ll not find the Squire do that: we must keep ’em for their blood.” “Come,” added the huntsman, turning upon his heel, “they’re all in now, and to-morrow will show what are to be entered. We’ve no voice in the matter.” “And don’t want to have,” rejoined the feeder, “with such a master as the Squire is.” Soon after my entry I was taken under the protection of an old hound called Trimbush, and the favourite one in the pack. He had been hunted six seasons, and, as may be supposed, was awake to every wrinkle.