THE FOREST 163 



But Mr. Kingsley never tired of the firs and their ' saw- 

 edge ' against the red sunsets, and all their belongings and 

 incidents. 



Mr. Garlli in his scarlet and Mr. Cordery in his green 

 coat were ever welcome sights, the hounds and hunt- 

 servants his chosen brethren and companions. And so one 

 afternoon, he tells us how, after visiting his sick people, he 

 rides the old mare away through the fir woods, under the 

 dome of buff and grey cloud, and comes right across Mr. 

 Garth's hunted fox. Shall he halloa as he did in the New 

 Forest ? It is needless. Louder and louder, nearer and 

 nearer, swells up the chorus music of hounds running in 

 woodland. 



Perhaps he may have written the ' Ode to the North- 

 East Wind ' when he got home that day. 



Through the black fir forest 



Thunder harsh and dry, 

 Shattering down tlie snowfiakes 



Off the curdled sky. 

 Hark the brave north-easter ! 



Breast-high lies the scent, 

 On by holt and headland, 



Over heath and bent. 

 Chime, ye dappled darlings. 



Through the sleet and snow. 

 Who can override you ? 



Let the horses go ! 

 Chime, ye dappled darlings, 



Down the roaring blast, 

 You shall see a fox die 



Ere an hour be past. 

 Go ! and rest to-morrow, 



Hunting in your dreams. 

 While our skates are ringing 



O'er the frozen streams. 



Somerville never wa-ote anything like that. There you 

 have the life and character of the well-bred foxhound in 

 verse. 



This is what he says of the foxhound in prose : ' The old 



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