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' witnessed an act of courage on Russell's part which 

 I can never forget. We had driven our stag, after a 

 long run, to the foot of the Quantock Hills, and there, 

 with five or six couple of hounds only, had brought him 

 to bay in a small stream, just deep enough to compel 

 them to swim, while he stood firm on his legs. What 

 was to be done ? for there was no one up but Russell and 

 myself The situation was a most critical one ; as, with 

 lowered beam and defiant air, the deer's charge ap- 

 peared to be imminent ; and then some of the best 

 hounds would either have been killed on the spot, or 

 have had their hides seamed from shoulder to stern. 

 Russell jumped off his pony (Fox by name, a wonderful 

 little animal, which, by-the-b}'e, immediately ran away 

 and gave me no end of trouble to catch him), rushed in 

 upon the deer, caught him by the horns, and held him 

 till a third man came to his aid ; who, so far as I can 

 recollect, was poor old Tom Webber, long since dead. 

 Luckily for Russell, the deer (a four-year old) was not 

 a very savage one ; so, while I held the horses, the two, 

 after a sharp tussle, contrived to secure him. Several 

 of the field then made their appearance — a little too 

 late, however, to witness the last act of the play, the 

 crowning scene of the day's sport.' 



There is one good story illustrative of Parson Russell's 

 homely way of dealing with his flock which I must 

 not omit. He was called to the bedside of a dying 

 parishioner, and began using, as he always did in 

 such cases, the broad Devonshire Doric. 



' " What ails the', old chap ? " " Ah ! passen, awm 

 afeard aw^m dyin'." " Well ! all o' us 'a got to die, and 

 thou's had a vair look-in ! " " That's right, passen ! but 

 awm afeard." " What's the' afeard o' ? Hasn't murdered 



