PETER PIGSKIN 159 



shoes are on, and scrapes the thick of the sweat off 

 with his stick. The soft horse has had a " benefit," 

 and the sweat runs down his legs and over his hoofs. 

 "I wish I mayn't be giving him too much," thinks 

 Peter, eyeing his distended nostrils and heaving flanks, 

 as he turns his head to the wind. 



The barley for malting then comes across his mind, 

 and it strikes him he's been riding away from it. 

 " It's been a grand gallop," says he to himself, running 

 its beauties through his mind, " / wish they'd killed 

 him." 



"Well, I suppose I must be going," says Peter 

 to himself, laying hold of his stirrup preparatory to 

 mounting. Just as he gains his saddle the hounds 

 begin to feather and Peter's eye to twinkle. 



"They are on him again!" exclaims he, in extacies, 

 as gathering his reins with one hand, he brandishes 

 his stick with the other, and spurs the well-lathered 

 nag into a trot. 



Another instant, and with heads up and sterns down, 

 the hounds race along the hedgerow. Peter forgets 

 all about the barley for malting, his attention being 

 rivetted on the hounds. There are seldom two bursts 

 in a run, and the second part exhibits their hunting 

 qualities rather than their speed. No man innately 

 imbued with the passion for hunting could be ex- 

 pected to leave hounds under such circumstances, 

 and if Peter's mission had been ten million times 

 more important than the mere purchase of barley for 

 malting, we feel assured he would stand acquitted 

 with our readers for forgetting it. Not that Peter did 

 exactly forget it, for Dustbin, the sporting miller, 

 declares he heard him exclaim, as his freshened 

 hunter took a flying leap over a bullfinch and brook, 

 " Hang the barley I I daresay it isrft worth having ! " 



Thus Peter coaxed himself on from point to point, 

 now declaring he would go another day, now deluding 

 himself that the hounds were bending his way, now 



