112 THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND. 



of this, and the mortification of being 

 deprived of the pleasure of a day's hunting, 

 my spirits became sadly depressed, and I 

 could do nothing but creep about the court 

 whining, and feeling as miserable a dog as 

 any on four feet. 



The day was very windy, and the light 

 clouds, looking like fleecy wool, scudded 

 before the gale, charged with rain; but 

 with the exception of a few drops which 

 occasionally fell, there was nothing as yet but 

 the threatening of the flooding storm. 



Sighing, moaning, whistling, screaming — 

 now in fitful gusts, then in one solid sweep, 

 mighty nature's breath snaps the tree top and 

 rends up the gnarled roots of a century's 

 growth. On, on, he goes. Bough, branch, 

 twig, and leaf — clinging like affection to the 

 dead — he whirls and scatters in his stormy 

 path, and with mad delight flings destruction 

 in his wake. 0-ho for the wind. Away, 

 o'er heath and waste, and through dark and 

 deep woods, and by lone churchyards, 

 humming through ivy- twined belfries, and 

 jarring rickety casements, shaking old hinges, 

 and ripping up thatched eaves and roofs, he 

 holds his course, like a fiery unchecked steed. 



