The Game Itself 331 



awayf" shouts the first whipper-in from the west side of 

 the covert. The great forest to the north repeats it in 

 echo — ** gone away, gone away — away ! " 



Hats are rammed down a degree tighter. Horses, Hke 

 their riders, are hardly to be controlled. They rear and 

 break away like race-horses at the starting-post. 



" Hold hard, I say, gentlemen ! You must hold hard ! " 

 bawls the Master. " Give the hounds a chance. I sav, 

 Blackhorse, look where you are going. Hounds are not 

 running yet." The Master loses his temper, and a lecture 

 is in pickle for some one. Have the blessed hounds gone 

 to sleep, we wonder? How the minutes drag between the 

 tally-ho gone away and the find ! 



Hark! a whimper — a challenge by Trumpeter, as we 

 know by the deep guttural voice, confirmed by Bluebells. 

 Half a dozen hounds rush to their sides. The huntsman, 

 with cap in hand, leans over his horse's withers, cheering 

 the hounds. "On, Bluebells ! On, good bitch ! " A little 

 farther, and Quickstep, who has rushed ahead, as she 

 always does, hits off the line, and, with one grand chorus 

 that fills the forest with its melody, the whole pack goes 

 streaming away like a flock of birds. 



How low they stoop. 

 And seem to plough the ground ! Then, all at once, 

 With greedy nostrils, snuff the fuming steam 

 That glads their flutt'ring hearts. As winds let loose 

 From the dark caverns of the blust'ring god. 

 They burst away and sweep the dewy lawn. 

 The welkin rings ; men, dogs, hills, rocks, and woods 

 In the full concert join. 



