9 2 



Fox-Hunting in New England. 



muffled thud the drum of a partridge? No, it never reaches the 

 final roll of his performance. It is only the beating of your own 

 heart. But now you hear the unmistakable nervous rustle of Rey- 



TO DESTROY THE SCENT. 



nard's footsteps in the leaves ; now bounding with long leaps, now 

 picking his way ; now unheard for an instant as he halts to listen. A 

 yellow-red spot grows out of the russet leaves, and that is he, coming 

 straight toward you. A gun-shot and a half away, he stops on a 

 knoll and turns half-way round to listen for the dogs. In great sus- 

 pense you wonder if he will come right on or sheer off and baffle you. 

 But a louder sounding of the charge by his pursuers sends him 

 onward right toward you. His face is a study as he gallops leisurely 

 along, listening and plotting. He picks his way for a few yards along 

 the outcropping stones in the bed of the brook, and then begins to 

 climb the slope diagonally toward you. He is only fifty yards off 

 when you raise the muzzle of your gun, drop your cheek to the stock, 

 and aim a little forward of his nose ; your finger presses the trigger, 

 and while the loud report is rebounding from wood to hill, you peer 

 anxiously through the hanging smoke to learn whether you have 

 cause for joy or mortification. Ah ! there he lies, done to death, 

 despite his speed and cunning. The old dog follows his every foot- 

 step to the spot where he lies, stops for a breath in a half surprise as 

 he comes upon him, then seizes him by the back, shaking him savagely, 

 and biting him from shoulders to hips. Let him mouth his fallen foe 

 to his heart's content, no matter how he rumples the sleek fur ; it is 

 his only recompense for the faithful service he has so well performed. 

 And now the young dog comes up and claims his reward, and be 



