266 THE HUNTING FIELD 



it will not surprise our ancient readers to learn that 

 he soon found out there was a considerable difference 

 between the horse he was on and the one he had 

 been riding, nor was the improvement less apparent, 

 owing to the sudden transition from a beaten horse 

 to a fresh one. Indeed Mr. Milksop, like many 

 young gentlemen riding on the top of the morning, 

 went a good deal upon price. He thought if he gave 

 a good lot of money, he was sure to get a good horse, 

 a problem not quite so apparent to those who have 

 made a long journey in old Father Time's coach. 

 The nag he was on was out of Jordan's stud, a fair 

 hack hunter when in the superior wind peculiar to the 

 class, but who had got rather pursey from a repletion 

 of oats and deficiency of work since he entered our 

 friend's (if he will allow us to call him so) service. 



Yonder he goes / cried the Squire, pointing with his 

 whip to where reynard was stealing over a gently 

 swelling hill in the distance. Yonder he goes ! repeated 

 he, urging his horse on to the pack. The blood of 

 old Furrier was in the ascendant, and the staunch 

 pack clustered like bees — a sheet would have covered 

 the whole. The fox gains the hedge-row, and is for 

 a moment screened from view — another second, and 

 he creeps through again, hearing hounds on the same 

 side. Ah ! it's all over with him. The hounds divide, 

 and there's no escape. Whoo whoop ! Vengeance 

 snaps him ! 



A fox is one of the few animals whose death never 

 draws forth compassion. 



"Poor is the triumph o'er the timid hare," 



wrote Somerville, and hundreds will echo the sentiment 

 who never feel a pang of compunction for poor reynard. 

 The fact is, he is a carnivorous dog, and dies game. 

 The scream of the hare is piteous in the extreme. 

 Our fox will not excite any more pity, we dare say, 

 from the fact of our having killed him twice. 



