The most delightful of all dogs are those rough-haired Scotch deerhounds the author of “Waverley” loved so well.  How timid and subdued are these trusty hounds on ordinary occasions! yet how fierce and relentless to pursue and slay their natural quarry, the antlered monarch of the glen!  Once, in Savernake Forest, where the yaffels laugh all day amid the great oak trees, and the beech avenues, with their Gothic foliations and lichened trunks, are the finest in the world, a young, untried deerhound of ours slipped away unobserved and killed a hind “off his own bat.”  Though he had probably never seen a deer before, hereditary instinct was too strong, and he succumbed to temptation.  Yet he would not harm a fox, for on another occasion, when I was out walking, accompanied by this hound and a fox-terrier, the latter bolted a large dog fox out of a drain.  When the fox appeared the deerhound made after him, and, in his attempt to dodge, reynard was bowled over on to his back.  But directly he was called, the deerhound came back to our heels, apparently not considering the vulpine race fair game.  I will not vouch for the accuracy of the story, but our coachman asserts that he saw this deerhound at play with a fox in our kitchen garden,—­not a tame fox, but a wild one.  I believe, myself, that this actually did happen, as the man who witnessed the occurrence is thoroughly reliable.

There is no dog more knowing and sagacious in his own particular way than a well-trained retriever.  What an immense addition to the pleasure of a day’s partridge-shooting in September is the working of one of these delightful dogs!  Only the other day, when I was sitting on the lawn, a retriever puppy came running up with something in his mouth, with which he seemed very pleased.  He laid it at my feet with great care and tenderness, and I saw that it was a young pheasant about a fortnight old.  It ran into the house, and was rescued unharmed a few hours afterwards by the keeper, who restored it to the hencoop from whence it came.  One could not be angry with a dog that was unable to resist the temptation to retrieve, but yet would not harm the bird in the smallest degree.

One does not often see teams of oxen ploughing in the fields nowadays.  Within a radius of a hundred miles of London town this is becoming a rare spectacle.  They are still used sometimes in the Cotswolds, however, though the practice of using them must soon die out.  Great, slow, lumbering animals they are, but very handsome and delightful beasts to look upon.  A team of brown oxen adds a pleasing feature to the landscape.

As we come down the steep ascent which leads to our little hamlet, we often wonder why some of the cottage front doors are painted bright red and some a lovely deep blue.  These different colours add a great deal of picturesqueness to the cottages; but is it possible that the owners have painted their doors red and blue for the sake of the charming distant effect it gives?  These people have wonderfully good taste as a rule.  The other day we noticed that some of the dreadful iron sheeting which is creeping into use in country places had been painted by a farmer a beautiful rich brown.  It gave quite a pretty effect to the barn it adjoined.  Every bit of colour is an improvement in the rather cold-looking upland scenery of the Cotswolds.