CHRISTMAS DA Y IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 353 



Hark, the little hounds are in full cry in the valley. 

 I enter one of the clefts where the wandering game 

 have made a regular path. It is hardly wide enough 

 for me to squeeze through, but it is twenty feet high. 

 Emerging on a rocky shelf ten yards on, I at once see 

 the object of their pursuit. It is a fox, who is just 

 entering the fir-wood on the cliff opposite. The 

 hounds are straining up the steep bank, and the valley 

 rings with their echoed cry. Then they cross where 

 I saw the fox, and are also lost to view. Soon all is 

 silent, and before I have descended the steep slope I 

 see them returning breathless. There is a main earth 

 among the firs, and without encouragement they will 

 not trouble to force Reynard out. If I tell my friend 

 the forester he will put a trap there to-morrow. But I 

 have a British feeling for poor pug, and the forester 

 must find him for himself. 



Skirting the plain for a quarter of a mile, I re- 

 commence the ascent where the slopes are covered 

 with young pines. Here are game-tracks in abun- 

 dance, mostly made by one animal, of whose identity 

 the frequent presence of rough excavations leaves 

 no doubt. The dogs dash briskly about, for the 

 badger, as I have elsewhere said, is their hereditary 

 foe. Alas ! before I can reach the hill-top I hear a 

 furious barking. I well know whence it proceeds, and 

 slowly approach a series of mounds and great burrows, 

 which the forester calls " the barracks." Yes, here 

 they are, many feet under the ground, and the furious 

 clamour shows that at least one " brock " is at home. 

 Resignedly I sit down and fill my pipe, knowing that 



2 A 



