THE FOX. 13 



The cooler air condens'd remains, unless 



By some rude storm dispersed, or rarefied 



By the meridian sun's intenser heat. 



To every shrub the warm effluvia cling, 



Hang on the grass, impregnate earth and skies. 



With nostrils op'ning wide, o'er hill, o'er dale 



The vigorous hounds pursue, with ev'ry breath 



Inhale the grateful steam, quick pleasures sting 



Their tingling nerves, v/hile they their thanks repay, 



And in triumphant melody confess 



The titillating joy. Thus on the air 



Depend the hunter's hopes." 



The "courteous muse's" explanation seems 

 as good as any other, but how difficult it is 

 to say with any certainty when there will be 

 a good scent, though often easy enough to 

 foretell a bad one. 



There are one or two things, however, which 

 can be relied on to indicate whether the scent 

 will be good or bad. 



If, on going out of doors for the first time 

 on a hunting morning, the cold wind meeting 

 you in the face sends a sharp needle, as it 

 were, into the tip of your nose, bringing tears 

 to your eyes, you need not expect the run 

 of the season that day, as there will be 

 absolutely not an atom of scent ! 



When hounds find late of an afternoon, just 

 as a hard frost is setting in, I mean a frost that 



