THE PROVINCES 



Let us begin at the beginning and try to 

 imagine a good day in the provinces, about the 

 third week in November, when leaves are thin 

 and threadbare on the fences, while copse and 

 woodland glisten under subdued shafts of sunlight 

 in sheets of yellow gold. 



What says Mr. Warburton, favoured of Diana 

 and the Muses ? 



" The dew-drop is clinging 

 To whin-bush and brake, 

 The sky-lark is singing, 

 Merry hunters, awake ! 

 Home to the cover. 

 Deserted by night. 

 The httle red rover 

 Is bending his flight — " 



Could words more stirringly describe the hope 

 and promise, the joy, the vitality, the buoyant 

 exhilaration of a hunting morning ? 



So the little red rover, who has travelled half 

 a dozen miles for his supper, returns to find he 

 has "forgotten his latchkey," and curls himself 

 up in some dry, warm nook amongst the brush- 

 wood, at the quietest corner of a deep, precipitous 

 ravine. 



Here, while sleep favours digestion, he makes 

 himself very comfortable, and dreams, no doubt, 

 of his own pleasures and successes in pursuit of 

 prey. Presently, about half-past eleven, he wakes 

 with a start, leaps out of bed, shakes his fur, and 



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