He had ridden far into the darkness, still guided by the baying of the staunch hounds; and when he could see to ride no longer, had obtained timely succor and refreshment from a stout borderer of Teviot-side. At daylight remounted a fresh horse, a garron of the country, to renew the chase; but it was now soon ended. Scarce had he gone a mile on the straight line they had run throughout ere he found Hard-heart stiff and cold on the mountain heather, and not a hundred yards yet onward, ere the great stag lay before him, not a hair of his hide injured, and Hercules beside him, with his head upon his haunches, where he had breathed his last, powerless to blood the brave quarry he had so nobly conquered. Sixty miles had they run on that summer’s day from point, they had died together, and in their graves they were not confounded, for a double tomb was scooped in the corrie or hollow of the mountain-side, wherein they were found, and above it was piled a rough, gray column, whereon may be seen rudely sculptured this true epitaph, Hercules killed Hart O’Grease, And Hart O’Grease killed Hercules. For, reader mine, this is a real and true tale, and I, who tell it you, have sat upon the stone, and tempered my cup of Ferintosh from the little rill beside it, with the wild peak of the Maiden’s Pass before me, the dark Cheviots at my right, the blue heights of the Great Moor looming away almost immeasurably to the westward, and no companions near me save the red grouse of the heather, and the curlew of the morass, nothing to while away the time that my weary setters slept in the noonday sun, save this old-time tradition. ----- [1] “Tayho!” is the technical hunting halloa when a stag has broken cover, as is “Talliho!” the corresponding cry for the fox. Both words are corruptions from the French “_Taillis Hors!_” “Out of the thicket,” French being used to a very late day as the especial language of the chase. [2] In Northumberland a few miles from the Scottish border. * * * * * “GRAHAM” TO JEREMY SHORT. [Illustration: WINTER.] “When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail; When blood is nipt—” Winter is here—Jeremy! Desolate winter! and the white fields are shivering in the sunlight—the old woods are solemn and sad—the voices of the air are hushed, and a quiet, save the moan of the wind, tells us that nature is passing through the dark valley, typical of death. We know that she will burst the stern fetters, and rising from her sleep, shall laugh again with infant glee in all her brooks; and spreading her motherly arms over the earth, will shower with parental liberality her treasures into our laps once more. Yet still we feel her silence—we are sad because of her desolation.