Beside him, squatting upon his haunches and wagging his shaggy tail, was
a good-sized dog, not of pure breed, but undoubtedly possessed of fire
and fidelity, as was shown by the eye he raised to his master. His red
coat and general formation showed that his father had been an Irish
setter, though he seemed to have other and fiercer blood in his veins,
mingling with that of this gentle parent.
To him the negro was chanting a war-song,--some lines by a popular
writer which he had found in an old newspaper, and had set to a curious
tune of his own composition, rendering the performance more inspiriting
by sundry wild whoops, and an occasional whacking of his teeth together.
Here are two verses, under the influence of which the dog worked himself
up to such excitement that he seemed to feel the ghosts of rabbits
slain--for he could smell no live ones--hovering near him:--
"I raise my gun whar de rabbit run--
Ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!
En de rabbit say:
'Gimme time ter pray,
Fer I ain't got long fer to stay, to stay!'
Oh, ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!
"Ketch him, oh, ketch him!
Run ter de place en fetch him!
De bell done chime
Fer de breakfast time--
Oh, ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!"
"If there are any more verses, Uncle Eb, keep them until we've had
supper, or breakfast, or whatever you like to call a meal at this
unearthly hour.
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