“The pudding must be reduced with pure water which has been boiled, and the usual allowance, or perhaps, on some occasions, a trifling addition to the accustomed portion of flesh must of course be given; by this method of feeding, hounds will most assuredly do their work far better than when a quantity of broth with very little or no flesh is given; a custom adopted in some kennels with very bad results. From such treatment, hounds will be observed light of muscle, big in their bodies, and incapable of running up at the conclusion of a severe day. By adopting the recommendation of substituting water which has been boiled, for broth, on the day before hunting, it will be found that hounds will not evince an equal degree of thirst by constantly lapping on their road to cover, nor will they be so soon blown in chase.” “There,” ejaculated Trimbush, upon the completion of his task, “that’s what I call giving the ‘why’s’ for all the ‘wherefores.’” Clever and philosophical as I deemed this delivery to be, I had become somewhat wearied with it, and in order to divert my companion from steeping his senses in forgetfulness, which his blinking eyelids bore evidence was fast approaching, I asked him if he had ever turned his attention to the poetry as well as to the practical details of hunting. “What do you mean?” inquired Trimbush, with a sleepy stare of surprise. “Simply, whether you have made the attempt of earning for yourself that fame,” replied I, “which I intend gaining for myself?” “I’m quite in the dark,” rejoined my companion, testily. “Well, then,” returned I, “to be more explicit, I mean to let my tongue appear _in print_.” “In print!” exclaimed Trimbush, husky with surprise. “How?” “Ah,” added I, quoting an early reply to one of my interrogatories, “there are many things as clear to our vision as the sunshine at noon, and yet their causes are hid in impenetrable darkness.” “Well, well!” added my friend, “I don’t wish to appear inquisitive, but if you should mix me up in your--your--” “Don’t say book,” remarked I. “It sounds so gent-like.” “Anything you please,” said Trimbush. “But as I was about saying,” continued he, “if you should come out so powerfully strong, perhaps you’d make room for a little slice of an attempt at a song upon our worthy master--God bless him!” “Of your composing?” inquired I. Trimbush coughed, licked his paws, examined the tip of his stern, as if a flea was taking a liberty in that quarter, but gave no answer. I repeated the question. “As you _will_ have it,” he rejoined, pettishly, “then it _is_ my composition.” “I feel assured that you need not be ashamed of it,” returned I. “Pray let me hear the effusion.” “You’ll not laugh?” said he, inquiringly. “Not if the intent be serious,” I replied. “In that case,” rejoined Trimbush, “here goes!” and in a subdued, melodious voice, he commenced his original song of THE OLD HUNTING SQUIRE.