FOX AND HOUND 



or whatever you call it. Much as I value agri- 

 cultural improvements, I wish its making had been 

 postponed for at least this one year. 



* Shall we race at it, as at Rosy or Wissendine, 

 and so over in one long stride? Would that we 

 could ! But racing at it is impossible ; for we 

 stagger up to it almost knee-deep of newly-cut 

 yellow clay, with a foul runnel at the bottom. 

 The brave green coat finds a practicable place, 

 our Master another ; and both jump, not over, but 

 in ; and then out again, not by a leap, but by 

 clawings as of a gigantic cat. The second whip 

 goes in before me, and somehow vanishes head- 

 long. I see the water shoot up from under his 

 shoulders full ten feet high, and his horse sitting 

 disconsolate on his tail at the bottom, like a great 

 dog. However they are up again and out, painted 

 of a fair raw-ochre hue ; and I have to follow in 

 fear and trembling, expecting to be painted in 

 like wise. 



'Well, I am in and out again, I don't know 

 how : but this I know that I am in a great bog. 

 Natural bogs, red, brown or green, I know from 

 childhood, and never was taken in by one in my 

 life ; but this has taken me in, in all senses. Why 

 do people pare and trim bogs before draining 

 them? — thus destroying the light coat of tenacious 

 stujQF on the top, which Nature put there on purpose 

 to help poor horsemen over, and the blanket of 



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