Of course the pair soon spied each other;
But neither seem’d to own a brother;
The course on both sides took a curve,
As dogs when shy are apt to swerve;
But each o’er back and shoulder throwing
A look to watch the other’s going,
Till, having clear’d sufficient ground,
With one accord they turn’d them round,
And squatting down, for forms not caring,
At one another fell to staring;
As if not proof against a touch
Of what plagues humankind so much,
A prying itch to get at notions
Of all their neighbor’s looks and motions. 
Sir Don at length was first to rise—­
The better dog in point of size,
And, snuffing all the ground between,
Set off, with easy jaunty mien;
While Dash, the stranger, rose to greet him,
And made a dozen steps to meet him—­
Their noses touch’d, and rubb’d awhile
(Some savage nations use the style),
And then their tails a wag began,
Though on a very cautious plan,
But in their signals quantum suff. 
To say, “A civil dog enough.”

Thus having held out olive branches,
They sank again, though not on haunches,
But couchant, with their under jaws
Resting between the two forepaws,
The prelude, on a luckier day,
Or sequel, to a game of play: 
But now they were in dumps, and thus
Began their worries to discuss,
The Pointer, coming to the point
The first, on times so out of joint.

“Well, Friend,—­so here’s a new September,
As fine a first as I remember;
And, thanks to such an early Spring,
Plenty of birds, and strong on wing.”

“Birds!” cried the little crusty chap,
As sharp and sudden as a snap,
“A weasel suck them in the shell! 
What matter birds, or flying well,
Or fly at all, or sporting weather,
If fools with guns can’t hit a feather!”

“Ay, there’s the rub, indeed,’” said Don,
Putting his gravest visage on;
“In vain we beat our beaten way,
And bring our organs into play,
Unless the proper killing kind
Of barrel tunes are play’d behind: 
But when we shoot,—­that’s me and Squire—­
We hit as often as we fire.”

“More luck for you!” cried little Woolly,
Who felt the cruel contrast fully;
“More luck for you, and Squire to boot!
We miss as often as we shoot!”

“Indeed!—­No wonder you’re unhappy! 
I thought you looking rather snappy;
But fancied, when I saw you jogging,
You’d had an overdose of flogging;
Or p’rhaps the gun its range had tried
While you were ranging rather wide.”

“Me! running—­running wide—­and hit! 
Me shot! what, pepper’d?—­Deuce a bit! 
I almost wish I had!  That Dunce,
My master, then would hit for once! 
Hit me!  Lord, how you talk! why, zounds! 
He couldn’t hit a pack of hounds!”

“Well, that must be a case provoking. 
What, never—­but, you dog, you’re joking! 
I see a sort of wicked grin
About your jaw you’re keeping in.”