Mrs. Talford, as usual, is going along to the fore, second to none; and Mr. Halston is determined that if the "fat bulls" do cross the line, he at all events will be well enough up to note the exact spot where the catastrophe occurred. Falls are plentiful, for the pace is hot, and the weather being of the same temperature, horses are soon, as Tom says, "all a muck o' sweat," and find the fencing no light matter. However, "For'ard on" they race, and for five-and-thirty minutes without a check, till they throw up suddenly by a thick ivy-grown hedge. "By Guy," says Tom, as he makes his cast and mops his face with a large red silk bandana, "by Guy, it's warm, and no mistak'." Then after a bit, as the hounds seem quite at sea: "Dashed if the varmint 'ain't melted." Not quite. He has only run the hedge right along the top of the ivy till he came to the cross-fence, and then jumping down has set his head straight for Woodborough; and Minstrel, casting on his own account, hits off the spot where he landed on terra-firma, and in loud tones proclaims it to the world in general and his companions in particular. At it again they are in a crack, and the welcome check having allowed a chance of getting "second wind," the field are all well up and as merry as crickets. Soon, however, the pace begins to tell, and the "tailing" is terrible; as they go on each successive ditch holds a victim, and the flyers of the hunt are all forced to take a pull. The best of the horses are beginning to sob, and old Tom has serious misgivings about having to finish the run afoot. But it's a long lane that has no turning, and two fields ahead the fox is seen crawling along dead beat. The hounds run from scent to view, then comes a last final rush. A confused mass, a worry, and then Tom's "Who-whoop! who-whoop!" is heard a mile back, and tells those struggling in the wake that the gallant pack have run into their fox, and that the Bullshire hounds have finished their season with a rattling run ending in a kill. As the word "Home" is given by Sir John, and old Tom rides off amid the congratulations of all who have managed to get to the end, he casts a look of pride at his darlings clustered round him, and mutters: "Ay, bad luck to it; it's 'Who-whoop' till next season." THE FIRST OF THE SEASON. Old friends are all meeting and gathered together In batches, discussing the crops and the weather; It has been a hard struggle for some with the rent, But their troubles grow light as the talk turns on scent. The landlord and tenant, the farmer and squire, Have all had to suffer and pocket their ire, At the sun's fitful gleam and the rain's ceaseless pour; But they meet in good fellowship round the inn-door. Their thoughts are all bent upon horses and hounds, For shortly the covert will echo with sounds, As the eager pack top the wood-fence with a crash, The young entry all bustle and brimful of dash.