IN AT THE DEATH 



,HREE o' the clock. A wester- 

 ing moon makes cloudy silver 

 over all the sky. Now and 

 again, through rifts overhead, 

 long pale lights dance, drift 

 athwart the world, chasing one the other in 

 spectral fashion. The fresh earth lies dew- 

 damp, plentifully besprinkled with the big 

 bright tears, distilled from this warm mist, 

 through every bough and twig. Clothe you, 

 and stir abroad. Singeth not the ballad- 

 monger, 



' ' A southerly wind and a cloudy sky, 

 Doe proclaime it a huntynge morning " ? 



In such an one, no doubt, George Washing- 

 ton, Esq., set forth, when, as his diary re- 

 cords, he " went a-hunting with Jacky Cus- 

 tis, and catched a fox." Listen at the river- 

 ford the splash and beat of hoofs. Now 

 the long note of mellow-winded horns comes 

 strongly up-wind, undervoiced with a whim- 

 13 



