Riding to Covert 315 



or lying at full length on the velvety turf. Some of the 

 younger hounds already are trotting about with nose§ down 

 and sterns waving, not having yet learned to husband their 

 strength. 



"Back, Songstress; go back!" A crack of the whip- 

 per-in's thong within an inch of her side sends one of these 

 triflers to the ranks with stern down, very crestfallen. 



"Do you see that hound by the huntsman's stirrup?" 

 asks a hunting friend of a stranger he has taken in hand, 

 " That 's Bluebells, the Master's favourite. Is n't she 

 great ? Her fling and drive in covert are something won- 

 derful. That big upstanding hound is Trumpeter, the best- 

 nosed hound in the pack. When he fails to follow a line 

 no other hound need make the attempt. That black-and- 

 tan bitch rolling on the grass is Quickstep — the most musi- 

 cal tongue you ever heard. Her voice is as clear as a bell.*' 



"What hound is this?" asks a farmer of the huntsman. 



" That 's Vagabond, by Vampire out of Quickstep." 



" And this one ? " 



"That 's Barmaid, by Villager out of Bonnie Maid." 



" I want to know!" replies Mr. Farmer. " Looks just 

 like her old dad, don't she ? " 



" Very much indeed," replies the huntsman, who might 

 have added that she also has inherited the vice of her 

 mother in giving tongue only as long as she can lead the 

 pack — a very jealous hound ; the moment she drops 

 behind she has no interest in the game. 



So the talk and admiring comment run about the circle, 

 while snap shots without number are aimed at the picture. 



It lacks two minutes of the hour. Toot-toot ! goes 



