He is a walking "_Brown Stout_," that feller.
"There is a hunter, come, I like hosses; but this brute was painted when at grass, and is too fat to look well, guess he was a goodish hoss in his day though.

He ain't a bad cut that's a fact.
"Hullo! what's this pictur?
Why, this is from our side of the water, as I am a livin' sinner, this is a New-Foundlander, this dog; yes, and he is of the true genu_wine_ breed too, look at his broad forehead--his dew-claws--his little ears; (Sir Littleeared must have been named arter him), his long hair--his beautiful eye.

He is a first chop article that; but, oh Lord, he is too shockin' fat altogether.

He is like Mother Gary's chickens, they are all fat and feathers.

A wick run through 'em makes a candle.