prudence induce them to ride to points, turn, and are to be seen piloted by Mr. Shorthorn at a tremendous pace: he has focussed a big white gate in the distance that will bring him close to hounds again; his great knowledge of the country, and his willingness to go best pace all day, provided there are 'no leps to be thrown,' enabling him to see the end of many good runs, even in such a badly-gated country as the Woldshire. Captain Cromwell jumps the stiff rail at the side of the gate, and makes up for his bad start; he is quickly followed by Lady Honey Hill; and Lord Solom Wood shakes into his place. The Master flies the rails with little effort, leaving the field still occupied with the gate. We cross a holding piece of plough; an uncompromising fence out of it tries the underconditioned and over-weighted ones; and hounds cross a wild sedgy country that holds scent splendidly, with nothing but fair hunting fences to negotiate. George is riding as near his hounds as possible, ' and what Providence sent him he took in his stride,' with his mind in a fever of doubt as to whether the earths at the Lime Pits are stopped. A gentleman is riding near him, who is so well known with the Woldshire, particularly when hounds are running their best, that I need not name him. Many are the 'close finishes' in the racing arena that he has ridden. He is now proving himself to be a bad one to beat. He has been down once; but so thoroughly does he understand the art of falling that he hardly loses a minute by it. We have been doing the last two miles at a tremendous pace; but here hounds suddenly throw up, and, with one look at their huntsman, fling themselves like pigeons to recover the line of their fox, which has been foiled by yonder flock of sheep standing huddled stupidly together. I take advantage of this check to see who are up. Lady Honey Hill, who has been riding quietly to the fore; Lord Solom Wood, who has not forgotten that he has a second horse out, and has been asking some severe questions of his first; a thin gentleman in spectacles, riding a white horse, who immediately pulls out his watch and times the run up to this: he evidently looks on timing a fox's powers of endurance as the end and aim of existence-and perhaps not a smaller one than many of our aims which we are pleased to think nobler, particularly if he times a good run from find to finish from actual knowledge, and not according to the general rule of when the timer arrives himself. Young Daregowell comes up, looking very happy on what one would hardly consider a good-mannered mount; also the owner of the cross-grained colt, who is now conspicuous for the limpness of his general appearance. A successful cast forward being made, our fox, finding the Lime Pits stopped (thereby relieving the strain on the huntsman's mind), bears to the right, which bend leads us over a fine bit of rough sporting country, hummocky' grass fields, with big wattled fences that require a real hunter to do. Forward we go, leaving High'em Steeple on our right; here we get on holding ground. A stile with a sedgy landing, or an awkward fence with a deep drop, await our choice. Lady Honey Hill, who has a

great partiality for timber, is the first who tries the stile, and gets well over. George follows. A farmer dressed in the dark-blue hunting-coat and black cap, that shows him to belong to the W-1l-n division, who has been going to hounds in the most gallant manner, tries the effect of pace, with but a poor result; for his horse overreaches himself in the deep ground on the landing side, and gives him a bad fall. Hounds here turn short to the left; the fox has evidently been headed by that cadaverous old woman picking up sticks. This turn puts me a little wide of them; and my horse, game though he is, finds the continued pace trying, in the heavy state the country is in. A check would indeed be appreciated; but hounds seem only to be increasing their pace. The country before me would delight any one who had time to think of aught but how to get a tired horse to the end of a good run; forward on-a man in the distance is waving his hat, if I can only manage to hold on a bit longer! The huntsman has got his second horse not a moment too soon, and shoots past me as I labour up a furrow. Lord Solom Wood is looking anxiously for his second horse; but it is nowhere to be seen. There is likewise a look of anxiety on Lord Tansor's face, arising from the same cause. They have both nearly arrived at the stage when they will be ready to say, 'My king'dom for a horse.' Lord Tansor's brother, however, from the two advantages of light weight and skilful riding, is still going comparatively at his ease in a forward place. Captain Cromwell is luckier, and has changed on to a horse who is as fresh as if he had just come out of his stable. Over 'great open field' hounds race; many a good horse who up to this point has been going well is reduced to a trot, for the plough is deep; and all wish that the owner of that Wold had left it in its old state of grass, and not been tempted by the high price of corn to allow that great enemy to hunting, the plough, to cross it. To make matters more painful a most formidable post and rails stare me in the face; not a friendly gate or gap do I see, and I look anxiously; indeed, it is simply a case of necessity. Try it, I must. I find myself the other side of the rail in a rather complicated knot; however, I am only the worse as regards bruises; but I make up my mind not to dare, under any provocation, the perils of timber again to-day. Lady Honey Hill just manages to do it. I hear a suspicious cracking of wood, a remark not of a flattering description to his horse, and I turn in time to see Lord Daregowell save a fall by what may be termed the merest accident.

At last we get on grass again; how man and horse both appreciate it! We near the muddy Kym, small enough in its natural state, but now bank full and particularly uninviting. I hope sincerely that our fox, who must be beat, has dreaded it and turned. No; after a moment's hesitation hounds, with an eager whimper, flop in. I hear a scream from George that might waken the dead, and, at least, has the effect of putting fresh vigour into our tired horses. Yonder he goes, and I see a beaten fox going up the hedgerow the other side of the brook:

most of the field, guided by a fat old farmer on a solid-looking brown, make for the ford higher up. The few who intend trying the brook soon become noticeable, nearly every one who has not got his second horse having had more than enough by this time. I need hardly say that Lady Honey Hill is one who thinks a possible wetting a small penalty to pay for seeing the end of so good a fox. The huntsman chooses his place to the right of where she did it so cleverly, One of the blue-coated sportsmen, who is doing credit by his riding to the W-11-n division, takes it in his stride. Down over the grass I go at the water with a rush and a vigorous accompaniment of spurs and a blind trust in fortune, which is said to favour the brave, and, to my surprise, I find myself, after a prolonged struggle, on the right side without a ducking; Lord Solom Wood does it with a 'liberal' margin; Lord Tansor, though his horse begins to cry, 'Hold enough!' sends him at it a little to the right of where I did it, but, unfortunately, within three strides of taking off, he is crossed by one of the whips whose horse objects to water at this time of day, and, to avoid a collision, Lord Tansor checks his horse, who, jumping short, lands among the stakes on the other side, and I fear is badly hurt. As I turn for a look I see another sportsman who has come to grief, and who is standing on the bank convulsively grasping his horse by the head, the rest of the animal being submerged: owing to his generally demoralised appearance it is difficult to recognise the neat' rider of the morning. The Master of the neighbouring pack, on Chance (into whose country we have run), flings the brook behind him, as if it were a sixfeet drain instead of a good 18 feet from bank to bank. Now, at this point, if I were writing an account of an imaginary run, I should make our plucky fox fulfil his destiny by being run into in the open, with every hound at his brush; but as I am writing a true account of a run in the Woldshire in December, 1872, I must give facts. A few fields after the brook there was a slight check that enabled our fox to get on; soon after this hounds bore to the left, pointing straight to the Duke of Covington's coverts. A gentleman on a bay, who, by force of good riding, has proved that his horse's name of Rattler is no misnomer, turns away from hounds, and we all think he has taken advantage of passing his stable to change horses; but justice must be done to the reputation of the game little nag: his rider had never thought of changing, and had only galloped forward, taking a short cut through his stable-yard, to try and view our beaten fox before he reaches Boarshead covert-too late, our fox has reached that stronghold, and, I should think, has saved his brush.

We spend some time in Boarshead, scent getting worse every minute; George stands in the muddy cross ride, his face a picture of annoyed perplexity, as he meditatively scratches his left ear with his horn. At last, as fox after fox is viewed, the Master determines to call off the hounds; we have changed foxes, and there is little chance of killing our hunted one; so, reluctantly, the order for home

is given, Lord Solom Wood remarking that he thinks it time the hunt expired,' as he has reduced his grey to a walk, and his second horse is still the horse of the future.

We have finished a long way from home, and the hounds have a severe twenty miles' jog before they reach their kennels.

N.B. Since the above was written, the hounds have changed hands, and the country has to mourn the loss of a first-rate sportsman and popular Master.

THE NEWFOUNDLAND DOG AND

THE BICYCLIST.

SCENE-Sunday afternoon-The Road, Golder's Green, Hendon.

I.

CANIS loquitur.

'WHY, what machine are you bestriding?
In the name of God, do you call that riding,
Cockney, who jumps the counter?

Do you think to pass Kimbolton Lodge
With that there sham equestrian dodge?
By Jove! I'll soon "dismount yer."

II.

The words scarce uttered, with one leap
(Lion's on deer or wolf's on sheep
Was never more distressing)

In the wet grass the Cockney sprawled,
And Norval, while for help he bawled,
Was heard him thus addressing:

III.

'If you want to ride, we've horses here;
Some sound, some not-all very dear.
Many of "Tom's" selection
From Howden and Horncastle Fair,
From Wales, and breeders here and there,
Bought after much reflection,'

IV.

The Cockney lay in the nettles floored,
While Norval growled; for aid he roared,
Just like a Bull of Basan.

'You may go this time,' Old Norval cried;
'But buy a horse, if you want to ride,

And buy of Newcomb Mason.'

A DAY IN A PUNT.

THERE are few things pleasanter in anticipation to a Londoner, who gets more hard work than holidays, than his first day's fishing on the Thames. People may laugh at 'patience in a punt ;' but to one who wants to get the cobwebs out of his brain, the change from the dusty, smoky atmosphere of an office, with its dull routine of work, to the fresh breezes, the ripple of the water, and the sight of green meadows, trees, and hedges, is in itself a thing of joy, to say nothing of the anticipated sport. It is a day of freedom from toil and care, a day to be looked forward to with eagerness, and, if all goes well, to be remembered with pleasure-the bright spot which will cheer many a day of drudgery. It is true the excitement of the fly-fisher is wanting-we have not even so much as the troller or spinner; but that is no reason we should not be thankful for the pleasures we can reach instead of hankering after those that are beyond us; and anglers have always been a patient race of men, as the bard of Twickenham, who must have had opportunity enough of studying their habits, says :

'In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade,
Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead,
The patient fisher takes his silent stand,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand;

With looks unmoved he hopes the scaly breed,
And eyes the dancing cork and bending reed.'

I had made all preparations for my first day on the river, and, with a glass of hot whisky-and-water by my side, and a pipe of the fragrant weed to help contemplation, was somewhat anxiously eying a neighbouring weathercock which seemed suspiciously inclined to the north-east, when a thundering rap at the door brought me at once back to passing events, and, almost ere I could look round, the old lady who acted as Cerberus to my modest establishment ushered in Nigel Nutbourne, an old friend and schoolfellow. Come up to have a look at Johnson's horses, old boy,' said he, and try and buy the big bay at Tat's on Thursday, and I thought I must look you < up; so seldom I am in town that I could not afford to lose the 'chance.' This was literally true, for if ever man believed that 'God 'made the country, but man made the town,' it was Nutbourne. He hated the sight of bricks and mortar, and was never so happy as when he was in what many would call the dull solitudes of the country. Moreover, he was a mighty son of Nimrod, and thought all time misspent that was not passed in the chase. When it was possible, he hunted six days a week, and said he should like to do so seven; and he kept on at it pretty well all the year round. He began with staghounds in August and finished with foxhounds in April—that is, when no pack kept on long enough to kill a May fox, and then varied the thing by having a turn at the otters until stag-hunting came in again. Generally, there was no one I would sooner have