THE NIGHT-HUNT IN RECESS. 81 
« And the kelpie must flit from the black bog pit, 
And the brownie must not tarry,” 
flashes across our memory from the romance of superstition, 
with the half shudder that is the accompaniment of such 
dreamy images. : 
Hark, a dog opens—another, then another! We are still 
in a moment, listening—all eyes are turned upon old Sambo, 
the oracle. He only pauses for a minute. 
“Dem’s de pups—ole dogs aint dar!” A pause. “Pshaw, 
nothin but a ole har !”—and a long, loud blast of the horn 
sounds the recall. 
We move on—and now the frosty night air has become 
chilly, and we begin to feel that we have something to do 
before us. Our legs are plied too lustily on the go-ahead 
principle for us to have time to talk. The young dogs have 
ceased to give tongue; for like unruly children they have 
dashed off in chase of what came first, and’ as the American 
hare (“ Lepus Americanus’’) is found nearly everywhere, it 
was the earliest object. : 
Just when the darkness is most deep, and the sounds about 
our way most hushed, up wheels the silver moon, and with a 
mellowed glory overcomes the night. The weight of darkness 
has been lifted from us, and we trudge along more cheerily ! 
The dogs are making wider ranges, and we hear nothing of 
them. The silence weighs upon us, and old Sambo gives an 
occasional whoop of encouragement. We would like, too, to 
relieve our lungs, but he says, “‘ nobody mus holler now but 
dem dat de dog knows: make ’em bother!” We must per- 
force be quiet; for “de dog’? means Bose, and we must be 
deferential to his humors ! 
Tramp, tramp, tramp, it has been for miles, and not a note 
from the dogs. We are beginning to be fatigued; our spirits 
sink, and we have visions of the warm room and bed we have 
deserted at home. The torches are burning down, and the 
cold, pale moon-light is sates than that they give. One 
