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would be in at the death the next field, 

 certainly the next hill-side, must bring it. 



So they crash pell-mell over the low road- 

 side fence, as the hounds top the high one 

 bounding the pasture - land. Still Rattler 

 leads, with Sounder at his collar. But see 

 them stop short, fling noses to wind, set up 

 a whimpering cry all the pack is at fault. 

 Master Fox is passing cunning either 

 he has dodged back under the horses' feet, 

 or hidden him so snug the dogs have over- 

 run him. See the good creatures all lath- 

 ery, panting, with lolling tongues run crying 

 about the field, dazed out of all weariness 

 by this astounding check. 



A minute two three still the trail is 

 lost. There is babel of yelps and shouting, 

 each master calling loudly to his most trusted 

 hound. The black colt champs on the bit, 

 frets lightly against the rein. This ringing 

 run has but well breathed him the noise of 

 it has set his wild blood afire. Or ever 

 again hound shall bark, horn shall blow 

 about him, he will follow, follow, with, with- 

 out, a rider. How fine the daylight shows 

 him. Sunrise is past, though no yellow 

 beam stabs through this woolly sky. The 

 hunters will breakfast late, if they hold their 

 purpose to kill before it. A horn breaks 



