run straight through the village of Oxley, this gallant fox made for Mr. Browne's farm on the hill; but, unfortunately for him, the hounds were close at his brush, and before he could reach that bourne the 'who-whoop' had sounded his _requiem_. Mr. Browne, with his usual hospitality, regaled those who were there to see the end, and a nip of his famous ginger brandy was an offer not to be refused, especially with a long ride home in the teeth of the wind. The time from start to finish was an hour and five minutes, almost without a check, and the distance from point to point could not be less than nine miles. When this celebrated pack have another run such as that I have endeavoured to describe, may I be again there to see. "BLACK HAT." "Who the deuce can have written all that farrago of nonsense?" says Mr. Boulter. "Why, we never ran more than a mile and a half." And the Secretary is not the only one who makes anxious inquiries. Mr. Hall has been away in London, and, having only returned that morning is in blissful ignorance of the way he has been taken in. As he arrives there is a general shout of "Here, Hall, you're an Authority; some idiot has been cooking up an account of Tuesday's sport and writing to the papers. You never read such a pack of lies in your life. We must stop this sort of thing. What should be done?" The gentleman's feelings can be better imagined than described, and as he stammers out "I have not seen the paper," he wishes himself elsewhere. It is noticed that that day he does not give his opinion on the whereabouts of a fox in quite such an authoritative manner, and avoids everybody as much as possible. Of course he soon hears the true account, and on the following Saturday his cup is filled when he reads under the same heading as his own--viz. "A Remarkably Good Day with the Bullshire"-- "SIR,--I beg to inform you that the account of a run on Tuesday week with these hounds, which you gave in your last issue, was entirely fictitious, as we had no sport after the first ten minutes, the hounds being unable to hunt.--I remain yours obediently, "J. LAPPINGTON, Master B.H." How old Tom managed to smooth the irate individual down is not known, but nothing more ever came of it, save that "Black Hat" no longer sends accounts to the papers of sport with the Bullshire Hounds. THE BLACKSMITH. Seven A.M. The church clock rings out the hour in the clear still morning, and the smoke goes up straight into the air from the chimneys of the cottages of Lappington village. One by one the good dames appear at their doors with tucked-up sleeves and heads beshawled, and commence the operation of vigorously shaking strips of carpet, and generally setting things straight.