28 THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND. 



you think he's gone; and, having made that 

 good, it's quite time enough to take the 

 other." 



On coming to some sloping, moist ground, 

 Trimbush stopf>ed, and, feathering for a 

 moment, threw up his head and made the air 

 ring with melody as he hit off the scent again. 



" We are all right," said he, exultingly. 

 " We'll either kill or burst him to earth." 



I could now wind the varmint with my 

 head stretched in the air ; and it was as easy 

 hunting as a bagman sprinkled with aniseed. 



" There's nothing like break-o'-day hunt- 

 ing, ' ' observed my companion : * * the ground 

 is cool and unstained ; and there are no people 

 about. Those terrible enemies to our sport, 

 shepherd's dogs, too, are not often in the way; 

 and the hundred-and-one difficulties to be 

 picked through at noon removed." 



" But we are not thrown off generally at 

 this hour, are we? " inquired I. 



*' Never," replied my friend, ** except at 

 this season. In times gone by," continued 

 he, ** as I have heard tell, the meet used to be 

 before cock-crow ; and often hounds would be 

 waiting at the cover-side for daylight. But 

 fox-hunting, like most other things, has 



