182 A MONTH IN THE FORESTS OF FRANCE. 



as well as fox and hare, may break at the self- 

 same spot ; if all is correct that my French friends 

 say, as to the scent of a wolf being the lightest and' 

 worst scent there is — a fact I confess I have ever 

 doubted — the hounds will never change from the 

 tremendous scent they have been running to one 

 pronounced to be so cold ; so let them go ; " and 

 '^ Away I gone away ! " I gave on my English horn, 

 and cheered them merrily up the opposing bank. 



They had run for a field or so along the valley, and 

 well and beautifully Coco flew two fair hedges with 

 but little ditch, and then into the woods once more. 

 The hounds now tailed immensely, and, long after 

 we had crossed the valley, I could hear the old French 

 faineants flinging their tongues, and dwelling, howl- 

 ing, and tying, on the line in the woods we had left. 

 And now came another lesson, had my friends been 

 there to learn. In rather an open part of the forest 

 we came to a check, with the four or five able Eng- 

 lish hounds at a momentary loss. 



At this instant the old lag-behinds down in the 

 valley sent up a volume of tongue, and very nearly 

 took the leading hounds back again ; but, calling 

 them to me, I held them on, and luckily in the right 

 direction : they hit the scent, whatever it was ; crossed 

 a young spring ; and again and again I gave on my 



