90 A MONTH IN THE FORESTS OF FRANCE. 



of the road either way, being myself at the same time 

 pretty well screened from the observation of all 

 animals, and having their wind, I paused to consider 

 the wild beauty of my position. 



Above the high copsewood, say of five and twenty 

 years' growth, the gap cut in it for the width of the 

 road admitted a bright view of the clear blue sky — 

 the air so still that but for a light fleecy cloud that 

 lazily veiled a small space in the heavens, I should 

 hardly have known wlience the propelling current 

 proceeded. I had forgotten to bring a few downy 

 feathers in my pocket, as is my wont on such occa- 

 sions. Hark at that little merry voice on a level 

 with my head ! that is essentially French ; we have 

 no little bright green tree-frogs in England. There is 

 the jay, there are tom-tits — those we have. But, hush ! 

 Maurice has uncoupled his hounds ; for there go all 

 the French babblers from the leash in full cry, not 

 on any scent or drag, but in noisy or querulous anti- 

 cipation of what there may be in store in the woods 

 around. Wow, wow — there's old Musto ! — bow-wow, 

 babble babble ! the noise continued for some little 

 time, when wide of it chimed in the merry truth- 

 proclaiming English foxhound tongue, and then 

 Saxon's tongue ; and then the cry thickened and 

 got for a moment together — then it swayed this way 



