LEAVES EROM A HUNTING DIARY 



All who read the following lines, describing the first day upon which 

 the Frost Fiend laid his cruel grip on the land, will recognise the poetic 

 inspiration that breathes through them as the work of a master-hand - 

 the hand, indeed, of no other than the Laureate of our Hunt : 



There were fifty horsemen vainly waited, 



Booted and spurr'd for the fray ; 

 There were thirty ladies' bright eyes, fated 



To be dimm'd with tears that day. 



There were eighty nags fast, strong and supple, 



Fit to go for very life ; 

 There were little bitches, twenty couple, 



All as keen, sir, as your knife ; 



While the orb of day was brightly burning, 



Many million miles away ; 

 Hoary fields to verdure quickly turning, 



By his mighty noontide ray ; 



And the foxes finding no admission 



Back to earth, discern'd a sign. 

 That foretold a fearful coalition 



Skill'd to trace their od'rous line. 



There was one small word the master nrutter'd 



To our question, " May we go ? " 

 Low his speech, we scarce caught when he utter'd 



That decisive little, " No." 



Short the word ! yet prov'd immensely stronger 



Than the wish that it denied. 

 Bidding sportsmen not to tarry longer. 



But to humbly homeward ride. 



All in vain the south wind gently sighing, 



All in vain the sun's mild ray ! 

 For to-day untrod the fields are lying. 



And the woods are still to-day 1 



Little fire, we know, great matter kindleth, 



Many words begets that word, 

 As the crowd of hapless horsemen dwindleth, 



Language loud and deep is heard ! 



Densely seems the fog once more to darken 



All above the blasted Heath ! 

 Naughty words to which 'tis sin to hearken. 



On the ground fall thick beneath ! 



Yet forgiv'n, forgot all such to-morrow ; 



Like the frost of yesternight. 

 Quick shall pass away all thought of sorrow, 



In that hour supremely bright 



When our eye the welcome vision cheereth ; 



Of the flying lady pack. 

 And our ear their sweetest music heareth, 



On the breezes wafted back ! 



Friday and Saturday hounds were out, but nothing worth repeating at 

 second hand came of it. A blank day from Daglnham on Monday, 

 December i6th, is almost a blank page in one's diary, for what can 

 you write about so uninviting a topic, though the philosophic temperament 

 may extract a few grains of comfort ? The smell of the woods, the splash 



