i62 FOX-HUNTING 



overtakes the little marauder of the night, 

 it is usually after a well-matched struggle, 

 and his end is swift as the lightning flash. 



Every act in the drama on nature's stage 

 is full of interest and life, from the moment 

 that hounds burst like a flood through the 

 kennel door, the huntsman astride his 

 knowinor horse shoves his horn into the 

 case, and "whips" scramble into their 

 saddles — until, when the Master has sounded 

 "home," the last good-night has been 

 answered as heads are turned in different 

 directions, and the patter of the pack on 

 the muddy road, and the echo of the horses' 

 feet, fades on the ear as at kennel fadge 

 they trot home in the dusk. And in the 

 interval between the dawn and close of a 

 hunting-day no man can tell what he may 



