We returned home with our vanquished and bleeding pack--Smut borne in his litter by four men--and we arrived at the kennel a melancholy procession.

The pack was disabled for weeks, as the two leading hounds, Merriman and Ploughboy, were severely injured.
Poor old Smut lingered for a few days and died.

Thus closed his glorious career of sport, and he left a fame behind him which will never be forgotten.

His son, who is now twelve months old, is the facsimile of his sire, and often recalls the recollection of the old dog.

I hope he may turn out as good.* (*Killed four months afterwards by a buck elk.) Misfortunes never come alone.