AND AMERICAN RURAL SPORTS. 
165 
i< De gentleman be mad,” said Monsieur Craving, ven I 
produced my pistolet. “ Hav a care, George, he vill him- 
self shoot.” — “ Pas de tout ! pas de tout ! I vill me shoot 
de Renard sans doute, but not non myself.” Just den dere 
vas great scream — Oh dear ! him poor gentlemans be moch 
hurt I fear. — •• Gone avay ! gone avay ! forvard ! forvard ! 
hoop ! hoop ! tallivo ! tallivo ! ” shouted Monsieur Crav- 
ing and all de other gentlemens : some blew a trumpet, 
and de flock of dogs came up howling and barking. “ Old 
hard ! ” said Monsieur Craving, “ old hard ! Pray, sare, 
do you think you can catch de Fox yourself? ” said he. 
“ I vill me try,” said I, “ but vere him be ? ” — “ Dere him 
go,” said Monsieur Bunce, as de dogs began to howl vonce 
more, and all de gentlemens gallop after them. “I vill be 
first,” I said. So I charge de whole flock of dogs, and 
knocked over three of dem. Oh how dem swore because 
I beat dem all ! Then ve got to end of vood, and I thought 
de Renard should him come back again ; but Monsieur 
Bunce he jomped a gate, and then look back at me, and 
said, “now, you tinker, catch dem if you can.” De gate 
vas open, and I gallop along in great haste, for ve vare all 
in moeh hurry ; but I arrive at von vare large fosse, and de 
lady in rouge demande voud I take it ? “ Si vous plait, 
madame : ” and I spur mine orse, but de 6toopid b£te tom- 
bled into it ; and voud you believe it, but de lady jomp 
over it and me and my orse ? 
“Pick up de pieces,” said von gentlemans as he passed 
by. “Vot, old poy, are you floored already?” said anoder. 
“Com to me, and I vill help you up,” said a third, as him 
gallop along. Indeed they all make some compliment as 
they pass ; but my orse him manage to get up, and I 
found I should not be much damage; so I gallop again over 
de soft grass for great distance, mine orse blowing vare 
moch. 
“ This dem Fox will never stop,” I said : “by my vord 
it is quite ridicule riding after him in this stoopid manner ; 
he will surely never dare find his way back to mi Lor Chi- 
chester’s poulets ; so vy should ve fatigue us to hont him 
any further. ” 
“ Shov along, ye skrew,” said a gentlemans, vondering 
at vot I vos stop; “ de Fox is sinking.” — “Vot him no 
svim ? but vere de vater ? ” — “Dere he go, up de hill,” 
said he ; but how de Fox could sink up de hill I could me 
not discover ; but Monsieur George make moch noise, as 
did Monsieur Craving and all de oder gentlemens ; and at 
last I saw de dogs overtake de Renard near von vood. He 
vas kill, but Monsieur George took him up and vip de dogs 
avay, and all de gentlemens got off orse and valk about ; 
and Monsieur Craving com to me and said, “ Sare, you 
vare near kill my best hound, but make me de pleasure to 
accept de broosh.” — “ Thank you, sare ? ” said I ; “ but I 
T t 
should prefere von comb,” parceque mine hair vas moch 
disorder ; and Monsieur Craving laugh and say, “it be de 
Fox’s broosh I offer you sare ; you have rode vare veil, 
and I am moch think you will make von vare fine spors- 
man.” But I say to him, “I thank you, Monsieur Crav- 
ing, for dis compliment ; but, by my vord, your English 
hont de Renard is much ridicule : you have now com 
trois league after dis dem animal, tired your horse, dirty 
your breeches, tore your habit, throw mod in my face, and 
ven you catch de creature you give him to de dog. If 
you desire a Renard, set von trap, and catch him by de leg, 
or let Monsieur George shoot him vit de mousquet as him 
com out of de vood, but never give yourself de trouble of 
honting him in this fashion.” 
But Monsieur Craving him laugh moch, and say, “ Sare, 
I tink you shall not comprehend our sport.” — “Perhaps 
not,” I say, “because I shall not tink it sport : derefore I 
vill you vish bon jour.” — Your vare obedient and vare 
humble servant, C DE LAUNAY. 
PIGEON SHOOTING, 
(by THE NEW YORK CLUB.) 
Op all the themes that writers ever chose 
To try their wits upon- in verse or prose, 
A Pigeon-shooting match would surely be 
The last selected for sweet poesy. 
But having made this choice, proceed we now, 
Despite the frown that sits on any brow. 
In airy nothings we take no delight, 
A vision is no more, however bright; 
No fancied pictures you will here behold, 
Plain truth, rough hewn, alone, these lines unfold. 
“We now are on the ground; come, let us see, 
Where shall we stand? why faith, beneath this tree; 
Here, sheltered from the sun, the breezes court, 
And pleasantly enjoy this old mens’ sport.” 
Behold the trapper off with shoes and coat, 
While anxious D***s opens wide his throat, 
And roars, come M****ll! B***'*s! H****n! come, 
Let’s make a match for any modest sum. 
But S** y******* n swears he won’t agree 
Unless the pigeons are as big as he. 
I***c C**t**t is willing to go in 
If their good landlord buys of him his gin. 
R***r will shoot a match (oh, the great gods!) 
. With any one who gives him lots of odds. 
Then M** # **n offers B*****y a bet, 
One out of ten, which makes the old man fret. 
