THE BADGER 



be glad to know that our death would come 

 as swiftly and painlessly to us as to the fox, 

 who, flying for forty minutes before the pack, 

 confident, perhaps, to the last that he is a 

 match for his pursuers, is rolled over in his 

 stride ? The sportsman may pity the sink- 

 ing fox, with every desire to see the victory 

 of the straining pack, in the moment when, 

 after gallantly standing up before hounds, a 

 straight-necked veteran finds he has shot his 

 last bolt, and turns with fire yet in his eye to 

 meet death in its swiftest form. 



There is something strange in the mixture 

 of pain with pleasure. My little son comes 

 out cub-hunting with me in the early morn- 

 ing of a September day. He is the picture 

 of delight, sitting on his pony among the 

 hounds, the effigy of enjoyment as he follows 

 them with his and his pony's head just above 

 the high bracken, the incarnation of satis- 

 faction as he receives his first brush and is 

 blooded. He is none the less a little sports- 

 man for sobbing himself to sleep at night 

 with his brush hugged under the bedclothes, 

 because of the thought that the bright little 



