s pursuer long before the trail
would bring him too near. After this, grown more desperate, the stag
circled round till he joined his old track, and then bounded aside to
let the hunter follow the cold scent.

When all such artifices fail, the hunted deer's last resort is the
water. Plunging into a lake or mountain stream, he swims up the
current, taking care not to touch any brush on the bank, lest he leave
a scent for the hounds. It is said that he can even hide under the
water, leaving only the tip of his nose above the surface.

The stag of our picture has reached the water too late; already the
hounds are upon him. The mass of struggling animals is swept along the
current of a mountain stream to an inevitable doom. The hunted
creature raises his noble head in his dying agony, seeking to escape
his tormentors. Even yet he strikes out in a brave attempt to swim,
but the end is only too plain.

The painter's art has set the tragedy very forcibly before us. Behind
is a lake, around which rises a range of high hills. A single break
in their outline admits a ray of sunlight into the sombre grandeur of
the scene. The narrow stream which issues from the lake falls between
huge boulders, in a steep descent. The struggle of the dogs with their
prey churns the torrent into foam about the body of the stag.

While we admire the art which can produce such a picture, the subject,
like that of War, is too painful for enjoyment. We must turn again to
the Monarch of the Glen, and from the contrast of the dying with the
living, we enjoy the more the splendid vitality of the animal.

XIII

JACK IN OFFICE

In the time of Landseer a familiar figure about the streets of London
was the itinerant dealer in dog's meat. His outfit consisted of a
square covered wheelbarrow in which he carried the meat, a basket, a
pair of scales, knives, skewers, and similar tools of his trade. His
assistant was a dog, whose duty was to guard the meat barrow while the
butcher called for orders or delivered his goods. In this capacity a
dog would serve even better than a boy, in keeping hungry animals from
his master's property. There is a quaint old saying that "it takes a
rogue to catch a rogue." The dog's wages were all the meat he could
eat, and having satisfied himself to the point of gluttony, there
would be no danger of any inroads on the meat from him.

In our picture a butcher has left his barrow standing on the
cobble-stone pavement