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 hour. There he lay—his head flung back and his eyes glazed—the open mouth just moving with his moan, and his limbs quivering and extended—and, sympathy apart, I should have preferred, of course, that he would die immediately. But, no.

I was at his side in another moment, with a handful of slices of cold turkey which I had snatched from the table—mine enemy forgiven in his extremity, and the delicate meat shoved down into his open throat with eager and trusting finger. No recognition of meat or me! I felt his shrunk loins. They were still slightly warm. But there lay the white meat, unstirred between his loosened jaws, and he was a dog past turkey, it was clear. Poor fellow! Was he conscious and suffering, while he could still struggle and moan?

As I stood looking at the dying creature, wondering at the scene of death under that solemn sky, and admiring the nature that could so pursue its game to the dying gasp, it occurred to me that a dash of cold water, and then the warmth of the kitchen fire, might startle life back into his veins. My man George came up at the moment, and, while he ran for his stable-bucket, I held up the dying dog by the tail, to make it down-hill to his heart and brain; but neither the change of posture nor the dash of water was of any avail. His moan stopped. There was a convulsive movement only in his legs, the spasm of their just