CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



in their own blood. Now along the coping of stone 

 walls she crawls and scrambles and now ventures 

 from the wood along the frequented high-road, heed- 

 less of danger from the front, so that she may escape 

 the horrid growling in the rear. Now into the pretty 

 little garden of the wayside, or even the village cot, 

 she creeps, as if to implore protection from the inno- 

 cent children, or the nursing mother. Yes, she will 

 even seek refuge in the sanctuary of the cradle. The 

 terrier drags her out from below a tombstone, and 

 she dies in the churchyard. The hunters come reek- 

 ing and reeling on, we ourselves among the number 

 and to the winding horn that echoes reply from 

 the walls of the house of worship and now, in mo- 

 mentary contrition, 



"Drops a sad, serious tear upon our playful pen!"" 

 and we bethink ourselves alas! all in vain, for 



"Naturam expellasfurca, tamen usque recurred - 



of these solemn lines of the poet of peace and human- 



ity:- 



"One lesson, reader, let its two divide, 

 Taught by what nature shows and what conceals, 

 Never to blend our pleasure and our pride 

 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.' 1 ' 1 



It is next to impossible to reduce fine poetry to 

 practice so let us conclude with a panegyric on 

 [40] 



