562 FOX-HOUND, FOREST, AND PRAIRIE. 



England ! Not much to look at are you ? But oh for the fun 

 you give, the mirth you engender, the good-fellowship you lead 

 to, and the sport of-all-sports of which you are the mainstay, and 

 the essential axis ! 



Care to our coffin adds a nail, no doubt, 

 And every grin so merry draws one out. 



They did not " pick him up in the open." His end, if un- 

 poetic, was practical, almost comical. He found a five yard drain 

 in the middle of the next great pasture — a culvert under an old 

 cart-road, probably. And there he entered — at least hounds 

 said so though there was scarcely room enough, one would have 

 thought, to squeeze himself in. A pole was procured, hounds 

 taken on one side — but no response. The master knelt down 

 and could " see day-light through." So could his son. This 

 was conclusive. Fox must have gone through. Half a crown 

 for a pole-bearer. Good night. But the yokel, having pocket- 

 ted his beer-money, thought that he could not do less, in a 

 liberal spirit, than give one more poke in return for his pay. So 

 he thrust in his pole at the opposite end. If Old Nick himself 

 had suddenly appeared, I doubt if surrounding sportsmen could 

 have been more startled, than when a mass of red fur bundled 

 out among their legs ! Reynard himself sure enough. Tally- 

 ho ! He had found some side- chamber, but was taken un- 

 awares with a tap on the nose. Hounds had him before he was 

 clear of the field. The hour 5.10. Time since the find, two 

 hours. And apparently only one horse untired ; viz., that of 

 Mrs. Pennant, which she had ridden all day. 



WHIFFS OF THE WEEK. 



While the sun has been blazing in the Midlands, or fog has 

 been darkening London, hounds have been running daily and 

 running hard. The aim of lite on the part of the hunting world 

 has been to let no single day escape them. Thus busily have 

 they been making amends for the lost weeks of midwinter: and 



