128 SKETCHES IN THE HUNTING FIELD. 



]\Iy friends possibly saw a fox, but not the one that 

 was being hunted. 



On ahead, or back the way I came and after the last 

 men I saw ? 



Back seems safest, perhaps, as I have no certain 

 knowledge of the direction the others took ; and back I 

 go, across the stream, cut the corner of the field, round 

 the corner, and see — nothing ! A man ploughing in the 

 distance with a span of oxen apparently, and no other 

 living creatures in the landscape except a couple of 

 rooks. Yet there is ? Yes ! A man in the middle of 

 the next field, pointing at something straight before him 

 for the edification, so far as I can see, of no one in 

 particular. 



Up to him I canter, and as we approach pull up sud- 

 denly with, I fear, a not altogether moral exclamation. 



The man is a scarecroiv^ and knows precisely as much 

 about the hounds as I do myself. The ploughman may 

 possibly be better informed, and to him I go next. 



" Seen the hounds ? " I ask. 



" I see 'em one day last week, sir ; I ain't seen *em 

 since," he answers quite seriously, for I look sharply at 

 him to see whether there be any humour lurking under 

 his stolid countenance. Suddenly, moreover, it strikes 

 me that it is uncommonly cold, a fact which I had lately 

 forgotten ; and in what direction to jog in order to find 

 my friends I have no vestige of an idea. The whole hunt 

 has passed away like a dissolving view. 



On I trotted, straight forward, and for a long time 



