228 GUN, RIFLE, AND HOUND. 



possibly get through the jungle, wait below. Once 

 more she emerges, now visibly more tired, and crosses 

 the plain, trying by doubling to throw out the hounds. 

 But though the sun is now hot, they stick to it 

 manfully. For the third time she enters the jungle, 

 but hardly are the hounds in than she doubles back, 

 stotting slowly along almost black with sweat. My 

 horn is out in a second and the hounds swing round to 

 the sound. As they break covert they view her at the 

 bottom of the slope. Druid is first, but the old 

 hound has got a bit slow, and Ringwood is first up. 

 " Who-whoop ! " I run down and take her from them. 

 She has not been dead a minute, and yet I hold her 

 out as stiff as a poker. 



"Capital run," says our host, driving up; "just 

 three quarters of an hour." 



" Have a pad," I answer. " All the hounds here, 

 boy ? Then who-whoop, worry, worry, worry ! " and 

 the hare is torn into fifty pieces. 



" I'm sure they deserve her," says somebody, and 

 we all assent. 



" Now let us go and have some breakfast," says 

 the host. What a breakfast we ate, and how we all 

 agreed that this was the best of all possible ways of 

 spending Christmas Day. I still remember the bill of 

 fare " All killed on the estate," our host assured us : 



Hare Soup. 



Fish (name unknown, from the river). 



Porcupine Chops. Wild Boar Ham. 



Red Deer Venison. Snipe. 



Parrot Curry. 



