the hunted hare has disappeared over a brow, her arched back betraying her distressed condition, so that if only hounds can get a view they must kill her. The game is well-nigh won; but unfortunately the hounds’ heads are up, and, a fresh hare rising in their very midst, away goes the whole pack, running the stranger in view. Really well under control as they are, no amount of rating or horn-blowing will stop them unless someone can get round them. Get round them! Alas, anyone who has run with beagles knows the impossibility of this until hounds check! It is, moreover, quite likely that they will run without checking for at least twenty minutes, and then what prospect will there be of recovering the line of the hunted hare? Some slight chance indeed there is, for a tired hare always stops, so that, if any vestige of a line can be shown, hounds may work up to and re-find her. Far oftener, however, all trace has vanished, when they are brought back to the spot where she was last seen. But let us describe a day’s sport with beagles, starting with the supposition that the master is sufficiently energetic to be up and at it by six o’clock on a beautiful October morning; for not only are hares scarce in the district over which he proposes to hunt, the consequence being that he will have a better chance of a find by getting on the trail, but he also desires to give his young entry the lesson for which running a hare’s trail up to her form is so admirably adapted. There has been rain, but it passed away on the previous afternoon, and after a brilliant night the ground is covered with a heavy dew. Our huntsman is wise to begin operations thus early, for now scent is probably good; whereas when the sun has reached any height the atmospheric conditions will, as a rule, become less favourable. Let us linger for a moment by the gate, where hounds are clustered round their huntsman, some jumping up at him, and others making an unprofessional use of their tuneful voices, a transgression which, however, elicits but a faint-hearted rate, for our huntsman loves his hounds intensely, and feels almost inclined to encourage a breach of etiquette which only enhances his already keen sense of enjoyment. It is a charming scene. A country roadside which forms the boundary between some rough grass meadows leading down to a stream on the one side, and a heather common on the other, gently undulating towards a piece of water, to which the wild duck are just coming in from the stream where they have spent the night. Even now a few duck are to be seen overhead, the whistle of their wings first making us aware of their presence. They are circling high above us, not daring to pitch, and will probably take a fresh flight to another and larger sheet of water about three miles further on.