ging his tail, and fondling the trusted hand that led him. Each was blindfolded in turn, and each was slain by a single blow from a heavy bludgeon.

Poor puppies! poor puppies! but it was a stern necessity. Hydrophobia is too horrible a disease to be trifled with-it must be "stamped out," and it was.

Our entry, therefore, is like the old Roman's library, undique coempti, and as good oftentimes comes out of evil, perhaps ultimately this may be for the better. The young hounds, gathered from half the kennels in England, comprise scions of the purest blood from the best packs amongst them- -a lashing, and, on the whole, a level lot they look.

Our first draw is a thick wood, bristling with briers, waving with. bracken, and at intervals glorious with lofty pines, broad beeches, and stately oaks. We canter forward, and, turning up a ride at an angle, wait, silent and expectant. The good old horse that has carried us so truly for many a season, with arched crest, open nostrils, and projected ears, though trembling in every limb, stands still as his rider, and scarcely, save by a shiver, shows that he is conscious of the light whimper that falls upon our ear. A whimper! a howl! a cry! a crash! Sixty hounds are throwing their tongues at once, and the glorious melody draws nearer and

nearer. The sound of the horn and the huntsman's cheery voice is heard, and our heart beats wildly as, with straining eyes, we watch for the fox to

cross.

In a second, with a rush and a bound, he is over —the fox ?—no! an outlying buck, which has got up before the pack, and is flying for his life. It is a beautiful sight

"To see the wild stag how he stretches
The natural buckskin of his breeches,"

and it is almost equally so to see a buck dashing through the thick undergrowth of a wood.

He appears to be possessed of strength and vigour far beyond his size; with nose protruded, and horns laid flat on his back, he dashes through the dense underwood as a rabbit would through the rushes. The pace is terrific ; and as the scent is burning, the hounds run like hawks after their quarry. They are close to his haunches. The sight is so beautiful we could hardly have found it in our hearts to interfere; but our huntsman, though he has not seen the deer, knows by intuition what is going on, and horn and holloa, rate and whip, soon stop the glorious but unlicensed chase.

It is useless drawing farther; the cover harbours more deer, lately escaped from a neighbouring

park; and we trot off three miles farther to another wood; low-lying, full of hazels and furze and bracken, and abounding in the dense thickets that foxes affect. Scarcely are the hounds in than a challenge is heard, which is speedily responded to; the puppies, shyly at first, then boldly, like indifferent singers tempted to take part in a chorus, join in the cry. The land outside is all arable, lately ploughed, and affords splendid galloping. No fear in cub-hunting of heading the fox, so quitting the hard rides, we gallop along outside, and reach the end of the ride just in time to see the fox cross. The hounds are close at his brush, and as we yell out, "Tally ho! over!" we feel we are twenty-five again. They drive him through the wood, and race him in view to a copse a short distance ahead. The hounds are through it like magic, and dashing out at the other end, stand for a moment staring foolishly at each other.

"Tally ho! back!" "Tally ho! back!" they turn like pigeons. Again the joyous burst; again the chorus of canine voices; and then-a lull. "Too! too! too! who-oop! Gone to ground!" The lithe cub has sought shelter in a rabbit-hole; there let him rest. He will run another day, and we have not too many foxes.

"Blood" for hounds is, I firmly believe, unne

cessary; they run a scent from the instinctive love of exercising the wondrous powers given them by nature; they run the scent of a fox neither more or less keenly than they would any other equally strong; they have no wish to eat the brute; no animal feeds on either fox or rat, save the rat or fox; and, apart from the excitement of the chase, they have no more natural wish to kill the fox than the soldier has to kill his enemy after he has vanquished him. Masters of hounds! huntsmen! kill a fox when you can fairly kill a fox, but, I beseech you, spare him when once he has gone to ground. Let him live and run another day.

FOX HUNTERS AND GAME

PRESERVERS.

THAT fox hunting is the noblest science that ever was invented, and that fox hunters approach perfection as nearly as it is possible for fallible human nature to do, no one will be bold enough to deny ; but, near as the approach is, we venture to hint that the acmè has not been reached. There is a weak point in the fox hunter's character, and we trust we may be excused for referring to it; there is, deny it as we may, a soupçon of selfishness inherent in his nature, and a lack of appreciation of the sacrifices made by others for his benefit, which detracts from his otherwise perfect character.

Far distant be the time when men gorgeous in scarlet coats, and rejoicing in miraculously fitting boots, bent on enjoyment, exulting in health, wild with excitement, shall be prevented from galloping over the well-kept lawns and carefully cultivated fields, the property of strangers, utterly unknown to and uncared for by them! Far distant be the time when country gentlemen, unhappily deficient in the bump of fox'untativeness, as Mr. Jorrocks calls it, but delighting in shooting, shall cease to