From Fox's Earth 



A ripple of excitement passed over the field. 

 The hounds were speaking out. The voice of 

 the otter-hound played with a drum-like beat on 

 the heart. It was in sympathy with the scene : 

 the note of the streamside chase. A hound with 

 a deeper, more bell-like note had been left in the 

 kennel for the day. The music of the crosses 

 was harshened into a prolonged bark. A hot 

 darg was followed to a culvert or mouth of a 

 drain. No darg led away. The otter had en- 

 tered and had not come out. A spade appeared 

 on the scene. The drain led too far back, and 

 the quarry sat tight. The hunt turned up stream. 

 Miles were covered, away to the haunts of the 

 water vole. Nothing more appeared. At mid- 

 day the dogs were drawn off, 



" The fact is, there ain't so many otters as they 

 talk about, or they'd have left the mark of their 

 feet or some'at behind them on the stones." 

 Such was the huntsman's comment. "It ain't 

 the dogs' fault." That was his grievance ; to see 

 his charge turning tail on a bloodless hunt. So 

 far he was right ; the dogs did well. Perhaps 

 he was unjust to the stream and the quarry. 

 It was an otter's day, and none the less pleasant 

 on that account. The wit which eludes is quite 

 as interesting as that which overcomes. To- 

 gether they make sport. The hunt came not 

 within sight of a tragic close. 



The eighteenth differed, as one charming 



