finally reach a hole in safety.

The tail of a greyhound is his rudder and his brake, and the sight is
most laughable when a whole pack of them are trying to stop, each tail
whirling around like a Dutch windmill. Sometimes, in their frantic
efforts to stop quickly, they will turn complete somersaults and roll
over in a cloud of dust and dirt. But give up they never do, and once
on their feet they start back after that rabbit with whines of
disappointment and rage. Many, many times, also, I have heard the dogs
howl and whine from the pain caused by the cactus spines in their
feet, but not once have I ever seen any one of them lag in the chase.

But the pack here is a notoriously fine one. The leader. Magic, is a
splendid dog, dark brindle in color, very swift and very plucky, also
most intelligent. He is a sly rascal, too. He loves to sleep on
Lieutenant Baldwin's bed above all things, and he sneaks up on it
whenever he can, but the instant he hears Lieutenant Baldwin's step on
the walk outside, down he jumps, and stretching himself out full
length in front of the fire, he shuts his eyes tight, pretends to be
fast asleep, and the personification of an innocent, well-behaved dog!
But Lieutenant Baldwin knows his tricks now, and sometimes, going to
the bed, he can feel the warmth from his body that is still there, and
if he says, "Magic, you old villain," Magic will wag his tail a
little, which in dog language means, "You are pretty smart, but I'm
smart, too!"

With all this outdoor exercise, one can readily perceive that the days
are not long and tiresome. Of course there are a few who yawn and
complain of the monotony of frontier life, but these are the
stay-at-homes who sit by their own fires day after day and let cobwebs