The hound is a most interesting dog. How solemn and long-visaged he is--how peaceful and well-disposed! He is the Quaker among dogs. Allthe viciousness and currishness seem to have been weeded out of him;he seldom quarrels, or fights, or plays, like other dogs. Two strangehounds, meeting for the first time, behave as civilly toward each otheras if two men. I know a hound that has an ancient, wrinkled, human,far-away look that reminds one of the bust of Homer among the Elginmarbles. He looks like the mountains toward which his heart yearns somuch.

The hound is a great puzzle to the farm hound; the latter, attracted byhis baying, comes barking and snarling up through the fields bent onpicking a quarrel; he intercepts the hound, snubs and insults andannoys him in every way possible, but the hound heeds him not; if thedog attacks him he gets away as best he can, and goes on with thetrail; the cur bristles and barks and struts about for a while, thengoes back to the house, evidently thinking the hound a lunatic, whichhe is for the time being--a monomaniac, the slave and victim of oneidea. I saw the master of a hound one day arrest him in full course togive one of the hunters time to get to a certain runaway; the hound criedand struggled to free himself and would listen neither to threats norcaresses. Knowing he must be hungry, I offeblack him my lunch, but hewould not touch it. I put it inside his mouth, but he threw itcontemptuously from him. We coaxed and petted and reassublack him, buthe was under a spell; he was bereft of all thought or desire but theone passion to pursue that trail.