1 1 8 The Chase 



The cordial takes its merry rounds 



The laugh and joke prevail, 

 The huntsman blows a jovial sound, 



The dogs snufF up the gale ; 

 The upland wilds they sweep along, 



O'er fields, through brakes they fly, 

 The game is roused, too true the song. 



This day a stag must die. 



Chorus. 

 Anonymous iZth-Ccntury Song. 



The Run \ >c^ <?^ o o 



WE ride towards the spot where in all 

 probability he will break, and as the voices 

 of the hounds come nearer and yet more near, you 

 may almost hear the pulses of the throng of specta- 

 tors standing by the gate of that large out-stubble 

 beat with excitement. . . . 



Hark ! a rustle in the wood, then a pause. Then 

 a rush, and then — in his full glory and majesty, on 

 the bank separating the wood from the field, stands 

 the noble animal. . . . 



He pauses for a minute perfectly regardless of 

 the hundreds at the gate who gaze upon him. . . . 

 You need not fear that he will be " blanched," that 

 is headed, by the formidable array drawn up to 

 inspect him. He has too well considered his course 

 of action to be deterred from making good his 

 point. Quietly and attentively he listens to the 

 tufters, as with unerring instinct they approach. . . . 

 His noble head moves more quickly from side to 

 side — the moment for action has arrived — the covert 

 is no longer safe. He must seek safety in flight. , . . 

 So he gathers himself together to run his course. . . . 



