iiTe night-hunt in recess. 81 



" And the kelpie must flit from the black bog pit, 

 And the brownie must not taiTy," 



flashes across our memory from the romance of superstition, 

 with the half shudder that is the accompaniment of such 

 dreamy images. 



Hark, a dog opens — another, then another ! "We are still 

 in a moment, listening — all eyes are turned upon old Sambo, 

 the oracle. He only pauses for a minute. 



" Dem's de pups — ole dogs aint dar !" A pause. "Pshaw, 

 nothin but a ole har !" — and a long, loud blast of the horn 

 sounds the recall. 



We move on — and now the frosty night air has become 

 chilly, and we begin to feel that we have something to do 

 before us. Our legs are plied too lustily on the go-ahead 

 principle for us to have time to talk. The young dogs have 

 ceased to give tongue ; for like unruly children they have 

 dashed off in chase of what came first, and as the American 

 hare {^'- Lepus Americanus") is found nearly everywhere, it 

 was the earliest object. 



Just when the darkness is most deep, and the sounds about 

 our way most hushed, up wheels the silver moon, and with a 

 mellowed glory overcomes the night. The weight of darkness 

 has been lifted from us, and we trudge along more cheerily ! 

 The dogs are making wider ranges, and we hear nothing of 

 them. The silence weighs upon us, and old Sambo gives an 

 occasional whoop of encouragement. We would like, too, to 

 relieve our lungs, but lie says, " nobody mus holler now but 

 dem dat de dog knows : make 'em bother !" We must per- 

 force be quiet ; for " de dog'' means Bose, and we must be 

 deferential to his humors ! 



Tramp, tramp, tramp, it has been for miles, and not a note 



from the dogs. We are beginning to be fatigued ; our spirits 



sink, and we have visions of the warm room and bed we have 



deserted at home. The torches are burning down, and the 



cold, pale moon-light is stronger than that they give. One 



6 



