r hue to it. From the toes of the
dragon on which it rested, to the beak of the hand-carved eagle,
spreading his wings over the shield beneath him, carved in the solid
mahogany and surrounded by thirteen stars, all was elegance and
aristocracy. Even the bold staring eyes of the eagle seemed proud of
the age of the side-board, for had it not been built when the stars
numbered but thirteen? And was not the eagle rampant then?

The big brass andirons were mounted with the bronzed heads of
wood-nymphs, and these looked saucily up at the eagle. The
three-cornered cupboard, in one corner of the room, was of cherry,
with small diamond-shaped windows in front, showing within rare old
sets of china and cut glass. The handsome square dining table matched
the side-board, only its dragon feet were larger and stronger, as if
intended to stand up under more weight, at times.

Everything was ancient and had a pedigree. Even the Llewellyn setter
was old, for he was grizzled around the muzzle and had deep-set,
lusterless eyes, from which the firelight, as if afraid of their very
uncanniness, darted out as soon as it entered. And he carried his
head to one side when he walked, as old and deaf dogs do.

He lay on a rug before the fire. He had won this license, for
opposite his name on the kennel books were more field-trials won than
by any other dog in Alabama. And now he dozed and dreamed of them
again, with many twitchings of feet, and cocked, quivering ears, and
rigid tail, as if once more frozen to the covey in the tall
sedge-grass of the old field, with the smell of frost-bitten
Lespedeza, wet with dew, beneath his feet.

Travis stooped and petted the old dog. It was the one thing of his
household he loved most.

"Man or dog--'tis all the same," he mused as he watched the dreaming
dog--"it is old age's privilege to dream of what has been done--it is
youth's to do."

He stretched himself in his big mahogany chair and glanced down his
muscular limbs, and drew his arms together with a snap of quick
strength.

Everything at The Gaffs was an open diary of the master's life. It is
so in all homes--that which we gather around us, from our books to
our bed-clothes, is what we are.

And so the setter on the rug meant that Richard Travis was the best
wing-shot in the Tennessee Valley, and that his kennel of Gladstone
setters had won more field trials than any other kennel in the South.
No man has really hunted who has never shot qua