The dew fell, dropping from leaf to leaf, and hung on the greensward in an endless succession of glistening gems. The mist floated on a light breeze, scarcely strong enough to waft the wet spider’s film meshed on sprig, and bough, and hawthorn spray. Mushrooms marked the rings where the elves of the night had held their orgies, and the fairy’s light—the glowworm’s lamp—still shone faintly on the moss-bank. Like a bride, veiled but not hidden, the young, gay morning broke, with a smile, the slumbering hours. Drooping flowers raised their petals, and folded blossoms opened to her kiss. Wild and happy birds heralded her coming, and all things of the day welcomed her.

At daybreak we were on our road to Wiverton Gorse, accompanied by Will Sykes, the huntsman, Tom Holt and Ned Adams, the assistant whippers-in. I could not suppress the delight I felt in going to cover; and, instead of the homesick and sullen feeling which I had had for a length of time, I was ready to jump out of my skin with spirits.

“Pray, keep quiet!” said Trimbush, in a reproving tone, as I galloped to his side, and laid hold of one of his ears, by way of an invitation to a romp. “Pray, keep quiet!” repeated he; “you can’t be too steady in going to cover. Nurse your strength,” he continued, “until it’s wanted.”

“I could race for thirty miles this morning, without a check!” replied I, boastfully.

“Pooh, pooh!” rejoined Trimbush; “that’s the way with you young-uns—all brag and self-conceit; and when it comes to hard running, where are ye in a brace of shakes? Somewhat in this form,” continued he, hanging down his head, with outstretched tongue and drooping stern.

I laughed heartily at Trimbush’s acting a fagged and beaten hound; and, although I had not seen one at the time, I subsequently learned that it was a very faithful representation.

“One would think, from that puppy’s gambolsome larking,” observed the huntsman, pointing to me, “that he knows what he’s going about.”

“Perhaps he do,” sagely returned Tom Holt.

“How the devil should he?” rejoined Will Sykes. “Isn’t this his first day’s cub-hunting?”

“Yes,” added the first whip. “But don’t you think them dumb animals have a language of their own? I’m blest if they don’t almost talk to us sometimes.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Will Sykes. “You’re a pretty kind of a Christian, Tom. I suppose, by-an’-bye, you’ll say they sing hymns.”

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” replied the imperturbable Tom Holt. “At least,” continued he, “if they don’t, they’re a sight more sensible than many of those that do.”

“Come, come,” said the huntsman, in a correcting tone; “try back, Tom. We shall have stones fall from the clouds presently, if you go on in that way.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if they did,” replied the whipper-in, as cool as a cucumber. “When so many folk, both gentle an’ simple, are building castles in the air, it’s nothing but reasonable that some o’ the stones should tumble.”

“Ca-a-pital!” added Will Sykes admiringly. “I like a sharp and ready tongue. But you don’t really mean to say, Tom, that you think hounds have a way of speaking to one another?”

“Yes, I do,” replied the whipper-in; “and have no doubt of the fact. They have the sense,” continued he, “to understand what we say to them, and a great deal, in my opinion, of what we say of them; and it’s quite as natural, if not more so, that they should have a language of their own, as it is for them to comprehend a foreign one.”

“Your notions are queer ones, Tom,” observed the huntsman. “And you’d have me believe, I suppose, that Ringwood there has been told what he’s going to do?”

“Nothing more likely,” replied Tom Holt.

We were now on the verge of Wiverton Gorse—an extensive brake of some forty acres of high but not thick furze, except in patches where it had been lately cut.

“Don’t let a hound get away,” said the huntsman. “We’ll rattle the covers well; but be sure and hold the hounds in.”

At this moment Bluecap and Dauntless made an attempt to sneak away; and, before getting a rate from Ned Adams, found his double thong cracking round their loins.

“That’s for not waiting orders,” observed Trimbush.

“Cover-hoik! cover-hoik!” hallooed the huntsman; “Elooin-hoik!” and into the brake we crashed like a flash of lightning.

“That’s the dash of the old blood!” said the huntsman, as I rushed through the gorse with the ambitious eagerness to find. “I’d bet a season’s capping,” continued he, “that he takes as kindly to work as a baby does to sucking.”

“You’d better keep by me,” observed Trimbush, “and learn a little of your business, instead of tearing your eyes out in that blundering, stupid manner. One would think, if you were not a greenhorn of a puppy, that a dying fox stood before ye, instead of not having so much as found one.”

But I was in no humour to be dictated to; and in spite of lacerating the corners of my eyes, ears and stern, I flew right and left through the furze, in the hope of being the first to challenge. In pressing through a thick patch, I scented that which I instantly concluded must be a fox; and, immediately afterwards catching a glimpse of something spring across a ride, I threw up my head, and made the cover echo as I dashed along the line. I was much surprised, however, that none of the old hounds joined me, and that, with the exception of three or four of the same age as myself, who merely gave tongue because I did, no response or cheer was given to my efforts.

In a few seconds we found ourselves through the brake at the farthest corner up wind, and in close proximity to the dreaded presence of Ned Adams.

“War hare, puppy!” hallooed he, riding at me, and cracking his heavy whip. “War hare! war hare! Hark back! hark back!”

Learning that I had committed an error, I was not slow to obey the caution, by getting out of the reach of the thong; although, as I afterwards discovered, there was no fear of being punished for a fault until it had been repeated. Scarcely had I again turned into the brake, when my friend Trimbush gave a deep-toned note, announcing that a fox was afoot.

“Hoik to Trimbush!” hallooed the huntsman—“Hoik to Trimbush!” and, as a bunch of hounds took up the cry, he added, “Hoik together, hoik!”

Galloping on the line where three or four couple of the knowing ones were feathering their sterns and ringing their music, I for the first time winded a fox. Anxious to distinguish myself, I at once began making more din about it than all the old hounds put together.

“Don’t jingle your tongue as if you were currant-jelly hunting,” said Trimbush, contemptuously, as I joined his side. “A workman,” continued he, “never wastes his breath with too much whistling.”

Feeling that there was truth in his chiding, I changed my tone, and gave tongue only when my friend did.

“That’s right,” remarked Trimbush, flattered at my observing his dictate: “now you sound like business.”

“Have at him!” hallooed Will Sykes. “Yoo-oo-it, hoik!”

Hounds were now hunting in every direction of the cover; and it was evident that several foxes were before them.

“The vixen and the whole litter are a-foot!” I overheard the first whip say.

“Did you view her?” inquired Will Sykes.

“Yes!” was the reply; “and she’s gone away.”

“Then there’s a dog-fox behind,” rejoined the huntsman.

“I thought so,” quietly observed Trimbush, stooping his muzzle to the ground, and drawing, with infinite gratification to his olfactory nerves. “I thought so,” repeated he: “a vixen, except she’s barren, never carries such a scent as that.”

“You know the difference, then?” returned I.

“Ay,” rejoined Trimbush; “as well as if I had helped to break her up. And so will you in a couple of seasons.”

“But how?” asked I.

“By experience,” replied my companion; “and from the natural aversion most animals have to destroy anything with or about to have young. But come,” he continued, “this is no time for talking, although we shall be stopped from getting away if they can get to our heads in time. However, keep close to me, and I’ll try to get a bat by ourselves in spite of ’em.”

“Who-whoop,” hallooed the huntsman.

“They’ve chopped a cub,” said Trimbush. “Now’s our time, if Ned Adams doesn’t head him back.”

A succession of loud cracks from a whip followed; but no halloo was given.

“He’s gone away,” remarked Trimbush, with glee; “and we’ll be on good terms with him. Stick to me.”

Keeping close to my companion’s stern, I ran stride and stride with him through the brake until we came to a corner of the cover where the fox we were hunting broke away.

“Now then,” said Trimbush cheerily; “up with your head and down with your stern. Come along, the scent’s a burning one.”

The instant that Trimbush was free of the cover, he laid himself upon the line, and raced like a greyhound; I following in his wake. Hearing the heavy stride of a horse in our rear, I turned my head to see who was following.

“Take no notice,” said the old hound: “If Ned gets to our heads—and he’ll prick blood for it, I’ll be sworn—the sport’s all over with us.”

“What the deuce does he want to stop us for?” inquired I.

“Pooh,” rejoined Trimbush. “Rattle on.”

The second whip came spurring on with the evident desire of reaching us; but the faster he came, the faster we flew.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush; “we’ll give ye a sob for it.”

Along two open grass fields we led the whipper-in; and then, for more than a mile, up a long, narrow lane, flanked by two high banks.

“I haven’t carried a bit of scent since we left the turf,” observed I.

“Nor I either,” replied my companion.

“Then what’s the use of flashing on in this way?” I asked.

“You’ve no cunning in ye yet,” replied Trimbush, “or you wouldn’t ask such a simple question. However, so much the better. Craft in the young is unwholesome; while, if the old don’t possess some, they have lived too long unprofitably. Now, we have no time to stop, and if we had we could do nothing with the scent on this hard, dry road: but having found our fox up wind, and as he turned down upon breaking cover, I know that he will not turn again. We have, therefore, but to make our own cast good one way; and then, in the event of not being able to hit it off, to try the other to be certain of getting on the line—unless, indeed, he should chance to head short back, which not one fox out of a hundred will do, unless it is to die.”

“But we shall have no chance of making a cast,” said I, “with Ned at our sterns.”

“I know the point he’s making for,” returned my friend; “and if we once get clear of this everlasting lane on to the scrubs, I’ll forgive Ned if he stops us this time. I do like,” continued he, “a run o’ this kind. There’s a spice about anything stolen.”

Upon coming to a sudden turn in the road, Trimbush all but stood still at seeing a flock of sheep in our way; who, upon our nearing them, began scampering before us, and became wedged together like one solid body.

“The devil!” exclaimed my companion, making an ineffectual effort to reach the edge of the steep bank, and reeling almost over in the attempt. “No matter,” continued he, as springing upon his feet, and rushing forwards, he galloped along the backs of the scared flock; and, following his example, we cleared the impediment, and found ourselves on the right side of a great obstacle to our pursuer, Ned Adams.

“Now we’re all right,” said Trimbush, exultingly; “and we shall have it to ourselves in spite of ’em.”

The long twisting and twining lane led on to an open heath or sheep-walk, covered here and there with patches of broom, furze, and dwarf blackberry bushes.

“We’ll first try down wind to the right,” said Trimbush; “for although Will Sykes very often takes us just the other way, so as to make sure the varmint hasn’t given us the artful dodge by slipping back on his foil, it’s a bad cast except with a beaten fox, and generally widens the distance between us and him. Always,” continued the old hound, stooping his muzzle to the ground as he trotted cautiously along, “try the way first you think he’s gone; and, having made that good, it’s quite time enough to take the other.”

On coming to some sloping, moist ground, Trimbush stopped, and, feathering for a moment, threw up his head and made the air ring with melody as he hit off the scent again.

“We are all right,” said he, exultingly. “We’ll either kill or burst him to earth.”

I could now wind the varmint with my head stretched in the air; and it was as easy hunting as a bagman sprinkled with aniseed.

“There’s nothing like break-o’-day hunting,” observed my companion: “the ground is cool and unstained; and there are no people about. Those terrible enemies to our sport, shepherd’s dogs, too, are not often in the way; and the hundred-and-one difficulties to be picked through at noon removed.”

“But we are not thrown off generally at this hour, are we?” inquired I.

“Never,” replied my friend, “except at this season. In times gone by,” continued he, “as I have heard tell, the meet used to be before cock-crow; and often hounds would be waiting at the cover-side for daylight. But fox-hunting, like most other things, has undergone a great change; and instead of the old slow-and-sure system of occupying minutes to find and hours to kill, we are now, taking the season through, hours finding, and minutes killing.”

“Which afforded most sport, do you think?” inquired I.

“It’s difficult to say,” returned Trimbush. “Unless we go the pace, men now consider that there is no sport whatever; but some years since, the merits of a good hunting run had nothing to do with the time in which it was done, like a horse-race. With a cold scent, stained ground, and an unruly field—heading the fox, riding over us, and hallooing at everything from a cow’s tail to a jackdaw—we frequently pick through, and even hold it on with extraordinary keenness; but seldom, indeed, do we get any credit for our pains. If, however, the scent is breast high—as it is this morning, or I couldn’t talk to you—and we fly along without a check, for fifteen or twenty minutes, with blood for the finish, then there is no end to the praise, and we receive nothing but commendation and renown. Not that I am an advocate for slow hunting:—for the enjoyment of sport, there must be a dash, spirit, and fire; and in creeping along at snail’s speed there can be neither one nor the other. But what I wish our admirers and critics to understand is, that a fast run by no means shows our qualities, but a slow one may do so; and often that both our praise and our censure are equally unmerited.”

“Still,” said I, beginning to pant for wind as we rattled up a steep hill, with the scent improving, if possible, at every stride, “as the old exploded system wanted that dash and spirit which, you say, are indispensable for first-rate sport, there can be no doubt of the present one being the most desirable.”

“On the whole I think so,” rejoined my companion; “but that may be,” he continued, “from not being practically acquainted with any other. At the same time, ‘honour to those to whom honour is due;’ and my belief is that our ancestors, the line hunters, hunted their fox as well, if not better, than we who now race him down.”

“Your judgment’s an impartial one,” returned I.

“Good or bad, better or worse,” resumed Trimbush, “it’s no use arguing about the matter: ’tis the pace now that’s wanted, and will be had. If we can’t hunt, we must race; and the moment we’re at fault you’ll hear a dozen tongues holloa:—‘Lift ’em hard, Will. That’s your time o’ day. Chink-wink ’em along!’”

“There’s no time given, then?” said I.

“Time!” repeated Trimbush with a sneer. “I’ll just give ye an instance of what may be deemed a fair sample of the patience of sportsmen of the age we live in. One day last season we had been running a merry bat, for about twenty minutes, as hard as we could split, and leading the field over enough yawners to satisfy the greatest glutton or steeple-chase rider that ever crammed at a rasper. The fox was dying, and, heading short on his foil up wind, brought us to a momentary check. ‘Hold hard, gentlemen!’ hallooed Will Sykes; ‘pray hold hard!’ ‘Consume me!’ exclaimed one who had been jamming his horse close to our sterns; ‘what sport one might have, if it wasn’t for these d——d hounds!’”

“A pretty kind of a foxhunter, truly!” I remarked.

“A faithful description of the majority, I can assure ye,” replied my companion. “But I must not lose any more breath in talking to you,” continued he; “I may feel the want of it.”

I had already done so, but was too proud to let the symptoms be visible in any flagging on my part. Desirous as I was, however, to maintain the pace we had been going for some minutes, and over part of an enclosed country with strong fences, I began to feel my strength failing, and the absurdity of my boast of endurance becoming manifested. I now, in spite of every exertion, dropped in the rear; and although Trimbush cheered me to hold on, I could not but think there was a chuckle of triumph in his often-repeated query, “Why don’t you come along? Recollect what you said about thirty miles without a check.” And then, as if to mock me, the old hound increased his speed, and, upon reaching a wide and level common, ran completely out of view, leaving me alone in my glory.

For a short time I endeavoured to struggle forwards, but quickly losing the line, and becoming bewildered and giddy from fatigue, I soon staggered to a stand-still. Ignorant of my way home, and not knowing what to do better, I gave tongue for assistance, and was heartily glad to have my cry responded to by the loud barking of a shepherd’s dog, whom I perceived with his master, in a valley at the foot of the hill on which I stood. In a few seconds he came trotting up to me, and mutual delight was experienced in finding that we were familiar acquaintances, and had had many a game of fun together when I was at walk at the home of my puppyhood, the hospitable farm-house.

“What, Ringwood, lad!” exclaimed the shepherd upon approaching me, and patting my sides, “is it you? Zounds, but it is!” continued he. “I’d know thee anywhere, skeleton though ye be.”

For that night I was housed in my old home, and the following day again conducted to the kennel.

“I wouldn’t have lost him for the whole entry,” said Will Sykes, receiving me with a warm welcome. “I can’t think,” continued he, turning to the second whip, who, I thought, regarded me with rather a savage expression, “how you let ’em get away.”

“I’ve told ye twenty times already,” replied Ned Adams, in a tone and manner portraying his humour, “that the devil himself couldn’t get to their heads. I did my best, and, like many o’ my betters, was beaten.”

“Well, well!” rejoined the huntsman with glee, “it’s the first time that I ever heard of a whipper-in not being able to stop a puppy, cub-hunting. Ha, ha, ha.”

“It was Trimbush, and not him,” returned the irate Ned.

“Oh!” added Will Sykes, “It was Trimbush, eh? It wasn’t worth while then, I suppose, to get to the head of one without the other, and yet, if I am told rightly, it would have been a difficult job to have separated them.”

The second whip was evidently chafed at this bantering, and turned away with a flushed cheek, and a tongue muttering anything but his prayers.

Upon entering the kennel again, all my companions came round me, and each, in turn, licked my torn ears and eyes, and were as kind and friendly as if I had been a brother to each.

“I am glad to see you back again,” observed Trimbush, raising himself from a corner of the court, and stretching his limbs. “I began to think some danger had befallen ye.”

“No thanks to you for having escaped it,” replied I, somewhat sharply.

“Oh!” rejoined the old hound, carelessly: “in a run it’s every hound for himself, and a kick for the hindmost. There’s no consideration then.”

“What did you do with the varmint?” inquired I, anxious to learn the result of our hunt.

“Within five minutes of tailing you off,” replied he, “I ran him from scent to view; and if he had not gone to ground, I’d have broken him up without any sharers in the feast. As it was,” he continued, “he was so hot and beaten that he couldn’t lie more than a few inches from the mouth of the earth; and there we remained, with our red rags out, panting and grinning at each other for hours. Now and then I had a scratching dig for him; but finding that I could make no progress for the roots, left at last reluctantly, and pointed for home, where I arrived when the stars were twinkling.”

“Did you see Ned Adams upon your return?” I inquired.

“No,” replied Trimbush. “Mark, the feeder, was waiting for me, knowing that I should be back in the course of the night, let the distance be ever so great; and the good old fellow examined my feet and gave me a good supper, without the least show of bad temper for having kept him from bed.”

“The second whip would not have treated ye so,” I observed.

“Perhaps not,” returned he. “You mustn’t suppose, however, that Ned bears any malice. He might feel vexed and chafed at not being able to obey orders, but he always lets bygones be bygones.”

In the course of discussion relative to the events of our stolen run, and during which the remainder of our companions formed a willing auditory, I asked Trimbush how he discovered the difference between the scent of a dog fox and that of a vixen.

“In the first place,” responded he, “it is never so strong; and when she has either laid down her cubs, is about to do so, or has not left off suckling, there is a peculiar odour with her which cannot be mistaken. Now, most animals,” continued he, “as I observed yesterday, have an aversion to kill those in any of the situations just described; but I should have added, when the purpose is to eat them. For instance, a stoat will not touch a rabbit when about to litter; but a terrier would kill her in a moment. This is the reason that so few birds are killed whose nests are on the ground. The weazel avoids the partridge and lark whilst setting, and the fox passes the pheasant.”

“What!” exclaimed I. “Won’t a fox snap a pheasant from her nest?”

“Gamekeepers,” resumed Trimbush, “would tell you, ‘Always when an opportunity presents itself;’ but I know better. A vixen, with a large litter, and food scanty, will do so now and then, I don’t deny; but what does she get? Skin, bone, and feathers—a most unsavoury morsel, for which the cubs will scarcely care to fight. The mother knows this well enough, and, unless driven to extremities, never takes any kind of bird from her nest.”

“The farmer’s wife tells a different story,” I observed.

“The farmer’s wife, like the gamekeeper, is a sworn enemy to foxes,” returned Trimbush, “and with equally groundless cause. If a single head of poultry is missed, the robbery is always ascribed to a fox, and, however devoid of foundation, never forgotten. The old trot dates her subsequent life from the event, and begins her tale with, ‘About six months after the fox took my duck,’ and so keeps the matter fresh and vivid to the end of her days.”

“One would think you were a preserver instead of a killer of foxes,” said I.

“Ay,” rejoined the speaker; “if it was not for preserving, we should have no opportunities of killing.”