An August Morning 



end of the wood. It has been quite still for a 

 moment or two — it must have been a rabbit. 

 The undergrowth stirs again, a tired cub crosses 

 the ride, and as you halloa " Tally ho over ! " — 

 it is the time to halloa now — you are glad 

 that you considered it expedient to wait that 

 other ten minutes at the place appointed for 

 you. 



The horn, which has not been much out of 

 its case during the morning, is sufficiently in 

 evidence now as the huntsman comes up at a 

 sharp trot with his hounds at his heels. They 

 pick up the line in a moment, and in two or 

 three more they have killed and eaten the first 

 cub of the season. 



" I'll just draw on to the end of the wood," 

 says the huntsman, " and then go home." And 

 as he draws on to the end of the wood hounds 

 pick up another tired cub, which our friend 

 the keeper can well spare from his three 

 litters. 



Then in the hot August sunshine comes the 

 homeward ride, part of it in company with 

 the huntsman who is eager to discuss what the 



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