2 14 A YEAR OF SFOJiT AND NATURAL HISTORY. 



prepared to gallop up or down rough paths, steep in places as the 

 roof of a house. A deep-mouthed chorus echoing from crag to 

 crag down the valley, followed by a shrill, wild holloa that makes 

 one's nerves tingle with rapture, proclaims that the old stag is on 

 foot, and the fox-hunter hstens for the " gone away," or dashes 

 eagerly forward in his anxiety not to be left behind. But the next 

 sound he hears is a whipper-in rating the tufters with " get away 

 back to him ! " " ware hind ! " and, obedient to a peculiar blast of 

 the huntsman's horn, these clever old hounds will swing round to 

 where their proper game was last seen. The wily stag is a master 

 of every shift and subterfuge. He doubles on his tracks like a 

 hare, beating up and down the covert, turning out hinds and young 

 male deer one after another, and lying down in their lairs until he 

 is fresh found. All this may be the work of hours, but it is fruit- 

 ful in lessons of such scientific hunting as one cannot see 

 elsewhere. The line, when lost, can only be recovered again at 

 times by the exercise of a skill and keenness of perception that rival 

 the Red Indian's faculties. 



At last the welcome " Tally Ho ! " is heard on the open moor, 

 and one may be sure now that the right stag has broken ■ covert. 

 The whipper-in, or some trusty follower posted there, has seen the 

 monarch of the glen crash through the oak copse, pause a moment 

 to sniff the air, turn his beamed frontlet so that every " right '' — 

 brow bay and tray, and three on the top — may be counted, and 

 then with a defiant stamp of his forefoot bound off" across the 

 heather. Instead of galloping hurriedly towards that point, the 

 huntsman rides back blowing his horn as a signal, while the 

 whipper-in goes forward at speed to stop the tufters. Now there 

 is mounting in hot haste at the farm where old stag-hunters have 



