Hu7iting m Devo7i and Somerset, 97 



Hark, hark ! From yon valley come musical sounds : 



'Tis the horn of the huntsman, the cry of the hounds. 



He rises yon steep hill ; he bends to the west, 



And hides in a leafy combe, panting for rest. 



But his foes are upon him, close, close on his track, 



And vainly he flies from the bloodthirsty pack. 



Hard pressed is our quarry — for dear life he flies ; 



The hounds gain upon him ; he lists to their cries. 



Then the headland is reached, from the tall cliff he bounds, 



And in the wild ocean escapes from the hounds. 



Eesigned to his fate, o'er the waters he's borne. 



And dies on the wild waves that break on Glenthorne. 



So urge on your steeds, for he never must lag 



Who through the wild heather goes hunting the stag." 



Soon Haddon Hill is reached, and I see Arthur 

 with his pack, and a nnmeroiis party of well-known 

 riders with these hounds. First and foremost is 

 the popular and respected sportsman, Mordaunt 

 Fenwick Bissett, the Master ; Mrs. J. Froude Belle w, 

 admirably mounted, riding with nerve and judg- 

 ment, being to the manner born a huntress, having 

 been trained up in the way she should go from her 

 earliest childhood ; Captain and Mrs. Bernard, the 

 latter mounted on a well-bred sporting-looking 

 grey ; Miss Jekyll, the Honourable Robert Trollope, 

 Messrs. Gore Langton, Marshall, B. M. Collyns, and 

 sundry of the dwellers of Dulverton ; Mr. King, of 

 the Lion ; and Mr. Tarre, of the Lamb, riding 

 amicably together. But time is up, and Arthur 

 Heal brings out three couples of hounds, tufters, 

 and accompanied by Miles, the clever, intelligent 

 harbour er, and George Southwell, his able whip, 

 proceeds to draw for a hind in the lovely cover 

 that lies at our feet. Sheltered behind a group of 

 trees I wait expectantly the sound of " Tallyho ! 



G 



