CHAPTER IX. 



*' Cold grew the foggy morn: the day was brief: 

 Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf : 

 The dew dwelt ever on the herb, the woods 

 Roared with strong blasts, with mighty showers 



the floods. 

 All green was varnished, save the pine and yew, 

 That still displayed their melancholy hue, 

 Save the green holly with its berries red. 

 And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread." 



It was the last day of November, and, 

 consequently, the concluding one of the first 

 month of regular hunting, that I was left at 

 home in consequence of indisposition. The 

 huntsman had given me the night before a 

 dose of something which tasted horribly 

 bitter, and I tried to reject taking it; but, 

 from my position between his knees, and his 

 ramming a bullock's horn half down my 

 throat, I was obliged to swallow the nauseous 

 mixture against my will. Between the effects 



