FOX-HUNTING IN NEW ENGLAND S3 



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 to- 

 ward 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 sure this morning's work will go 

 far toward making him as stanch and true as his 

 chase-worn leader. 



The shade of sadness for a moment indulged 

 over the vigorous life so suddenly ended by your 

 shot is but a passing cloud on the serene happiness 



