“You never hear,” said I, diving again more particularly into our subject, “of men admitting that they had anything to do with losing a fox, although they invariably claim a large share in the honour of killing him.” “You have noticed that, have you?” responded the old hound, laughing. “No; it is always _they_ lost him, but _we_ killed him. Ha, ha, ha!” “It ought to be just reversed,” rejoined I. “There would be much greater truth in the assertion, when generally applied,” returned Trimbush. “A fox is frequently lost through them, and rare, indeed, is the occurrence when any act on their part may be regarded as one of assistance in killing him.” “I begin to have a great contempt for the ignorance of human beings,” observed I. “All of us do at the end of our first season,” replied my friend. “We discover, by that time, what a set of know-nothings men are, and, if worthy to be retained in the pack, take no notice whatever of their cheers or rates; but merely avoid their horses’ feet, and get away from them as far and as fast as we can.” CHAPTER XII. “When early primroses appear, And vales are decked with daffodils, I hail the new reviving year, And soothing hope my bosom fills. The lambkin bleating on the plain, The swallow seen with gladdened eye, The welcome cuckoo’s merry strain, Proclaim the joyful summer nigh.” It was the second week in April, and the last day of the season, that we jogged slowly along the road to the meet. The season had been unusually forward, and the air was fragrant with the early violets and primroses, decking the roadside banks. There was a haze rolling along the valleys, and the boughs and branches of the trees, now unfolding their luxuriant and freshest green, were glittering with myriads of dew-drops, flashing in the light of the young spring morn. Punctuality being the standing order with our Squire, Will often consulted his watch to regulate our pace, so that we should be at the fixture exactly at the time named; and as we approached Duvale village, the church clock was striking the hour of ten. Turning on to a patch of green, where a few geese and a lonely dejected-looking donkey cropped the meagre herbage, and a host of round-faced chubby children played, and madly screamed with joy to see us arrive, we formed a group around Will’s horse in eager expectation of the Squire’s coming. The hum of the last stroke had scarcely ceased, when the sharp pit-a-pat of a horse’s feet was heard, and immediately afterwards the Squire came cantering up, accompanied by three or four of his friends. I was glad to see that the field comprised those only who hunted regularly with us, and, although many of them were generally too anxious to get forward, and thought of little more than showing well in the first flight, yet there was no fear of much unsportsman-like conduct on their part.