behind straw - stacks, frisk and gambol in the fields. The blacksmiths' shops at the cross roads and the Court-house villages are thronged with coloured labourers and tenants, whose masters, now seeding-time is upon them, have suddenly remembered that every plough in the place is out of fix, and not a harrow has its full complement of teeth. The light breeze from the south-west moans softly in the pines; but among the deciduous trees not a withered shred of foliage is left for it to stir, and the silence is complete. The freshly awakened sunlight streams softly down between the leafless branches and the rugged trunks of oak and chestnut, hickory and poplar, and plays upon the golden carpet of wasted leaves that hides the earth beneath them. The Doctor, as he stands at the edge of the forest, would ordinarily upon such a day be deep in agricultural reveries of a most sanguine nature. But he is now waiting for one more note of evidence that there is a prospect of what he would call "a chase "-hesitating as to the widow Gubbins. Suddenly there is a great commotion in the wooded valley beneath, and in a few seconds you might be in Leicestershire spinny, so busy and joyful are the little pack with their tongues. "That's a fox, any way," says the Doctor to the sorrel mare; and, likely as not, a red." Two small farmers, jogging down the road, pull up their horses and yell with the peculiar shrill scream that is traditionally as much a part of Virginia fox hunting as the familiar cries of the British huntingfield are with us. The Doctor, though his voice is not what it was thirty years ago, catches the infection, and, standing up in his wooden leather - capped stirrups, hallooes at his hounds in what he would call "real old Virginia fashion." "By G-d! it's a red," says one of the small farmers, who has perched himself on the top of the fence, so as to look down over the sloping tree-tops on to the opposite hill. "The dogs are out of the wood, and are streakin' it up the broomsedge field yonder-dawg my skin if they ain't!" This is too much for the Doctor. "Pull down the fence, gentlemen, for God's sake! and we'll push on up to the old Mathew's graveyard on top of the hill. We shall see right smart of the chase from there. I know that old fox; he'll go straight to the pines on Squire Harrison's quarter place." The four or five top rails are tossed off the snake fence; but the Doctor can't wait for the remaining six. The long spur is applied to the flank of the sorrel mare, the apple switch to her shoulder. Amid a crashing and scattering of rotten chestnutrails, the Doctor, cloak and spectacles, saddle-bags, pills, medicinebottles, and overalls, lands safely in the corn-stalk field upon the other side. The two farmers follow through the fearful breach he has made, and they may soon all be heard upon the opposite hill cheering and yelling to the hounds, which by this time are well out of reach of such encouraging sounds. Neither the country, nor the horse, nor the Doctor is adapted for riding to hounds; nor, as I have before intimated, has the latter any idea of doing so. The good man wants to hear as much as possible-to see as much as possible-of the chase; but when he neither sees nor hears a great deal the case he will still take much bread apiece. The following day delight in collecting the details is Saturday, and the Colonel's from other sources. If his hounds eventually kill their fox half-way across the county, friends and neighbours, who became accidental witnesses of various stages of the chase, and each of whom did their share of hallooing and cheering, will send round word to the "old Doctor," or "call by" the next time they pass his house, and cheer his heart with praises of his dogs. The Doctor will probably have bandaged Mrs Gubbins's leg, and be half-way home by the time the death scene takes place, in some laurel thicket possibly miles and miles away from the corner where we left our friend bursting through the fence. Not more than halfa-dozen, probably, of the fourteen or fifteen hounds with which the Doctor started, will assist at the finish. Two or three of the puppies will have dropped out early in the day, and come home hunting rabbits all the way. Three or four more are perhaps just over distemper, and will fall in their tracks, to come limping and crawling home at noon. Rambler and Fairfax, however, having assisted at the finish, and being perhaps the most knowing old dogs of the lot, will have trotted round to old Colonel Peyton's close by. They are mighty hungry-for Virginia hounds won't touch foxes' flesh-and they succeed in slipping into the log kitchen in the yard, while Melindy the cook is outside collecting chips, and abstracting from the top of the stove an entire ham. The said ham was just prepared for the Colonel's supper; but in fox-hunting all is forgiven. So after a little burst of wrath he reckons they are the old Doctor's dogs, shuts them up in the granary, and gives them a cake of corn son, home from school for a holiday, thinks it an opportunity for a rabbit-hunt in the pines behind the house not to be missed. So Rambler and Fairfax are introduced to the proposed scene of action in the morning. After condescending to an hour of this amusement, they hold a canine consultation, and start for home, where they finally arrive about sundown, to be made much of by the Doctor, who has already heard of the finish from a negro who was splitting rails close by. The Doctor's satisfaction is quite as great as if he had cut down a whole Leicestershire field in the fastest thing of the season. His heart warms towards those undersized, harsh-coated, slab-sided little friends of his as he stands watching the negro woman breaking up their supper of hot corn-bread with buttermilk as a treat on the back porch. They have all come in by this time, and scuffle and growl and snap around the board as the food is thrown to them. The knowing ones take advantage of such an evening as this to assert, with more than usual assurance, their right of entry to the house. The Doctor has had his supper, and hopes that no ominous shout from the darkness will, for this night at any rate, call him to some distant sick-bed. He has drawn up his one-armed rocking-chair to the parlour fire, and by the kerosene-lamp is poring over the last oration on free trade by that grand old Virginia gentleman and senator, Mr Jefferson Randolph Beverly Page. Conscious, as it were, that some extra indulgence is deserved on this night, the dogs begin to crawl in. One by one, beginning with the oldest and wiliest and ending with the timidest puppy, By G-d! it's a red," says one of the small farmers, who has perched himself on the top of the fence, so as to look down over the sloping tree-tops on to the opposite hill. "The dogs are out of the wood, and are streakin' it up the broomsedge field yonder-dawg my skin if they ain't!" behind straw - stacks, frisk and hallooes at his hounds in what he gambol in the fields. The black would call "real old Virginia smiths' shops at the cross roads fashion." and the Court-house villages are thronged with coloured labourers and tenants, whose masters, now seeding-time is upon them, have suddenly remembered that every plough in the place is out of fix, and not a harrow has its full complement of teeth. The light breeze from the south-west moans softly in the pines; but among the deciduous trees not a withered shred of foliage is left for it to stir, and the silence is complete. The freshly awakened sunlight streams softly down between the leafless branches and the rugged trunks of oak and chestnut, hickory and poplar, and plays upon the golden carpet of wasted leaves that hides the earth beneath them. The Doctor, as he stands at the edge of the forest, would ordinarily upon such a day be deep in agricultural reveries of a most sanguine nature. But he is now waiting for one more note of evidence that there is a prospect of what he would call "a chase"-hesitating as to the widow Gubbins. Suddenly there is a great commotion in the wooded valley beneath, and in a few seconds you might be in Leicestershire spinny, so busy and joyful are the little pack with their tongues. "That's a fox, any way," says the Doctor to the sorrel mare; and, likely as not, a red." Two small farmers, jogging down the road, pull up their horses and yell with the peculiar shrill scream that is traditionally as much a part of Virginia fox hunting as the familiar cries of the British huntingfield are with us. The Doctor, though his voice is not what it was thirty years ago, catches the infection, and, standing up in his leather capped stirrups, This is too much for the Doctor. "Pull down the fence, gentlemen, for God's sake! and we'll push on up to the old Mathew's graveyard on top of the hill. We shall see right smart of the chase from there. I know that old fox; he'll go straight to the pines on Squire Harrison's quarter place." The four or five top rails are tossed off the snake fence; but the Doctor can't wait for the remaining six. The long spur is applied to the flank of the sorrel mare, the apple switch to her shoulder. Amid a crashing and scattering_of rotten chestnutrails, the Doctor, cloak and spectacles, saddle-bags, pills, medicinebottles, and overalls, lands safely in the corn-stalk field upon the other side. The two farmers follow through the fearful breach he has made, and they may soon all be heard upon the opposite hill cheering and yelling to the hounds, which by this time are well out of reach of such encouraging sounds. Neither the country, nor the horse, nor the Doctor is adapted for riding to hounds; nor, as I have before intimated, has the latter any idea of doing so. The good man wants to hear as much as possible-to see as much as possible-of the chase; but when he neither sees nor hears a great deal which, when a strong red fox goes straight away, is generally the case he will still take much bread apiece. The following day delight in collecting the details from other sources. If his hounds eventually kill their fox half-way across the county, friends and neighbours, who became accidental witnesses of various stages of the chase, and each of whom did their share of hallooing and cheering, will send round word to the "old Doctor," or "call by" the next time they pass his house, and cheer his heart with praises of his dogs. The Doctor will probably have bandaged Mrs Gubbins's leg, and be half-way home by the time the death scene takes place, in some laurel thicket possibly miles and miles away from the corner where we left our friend bursting through the fence. Not more than halfa-dozen, probably, of the fourteen or fifteen hounds with which the Doctor started, will assist at the finish. Two or three of the puppies will have dropped out early in the day, and come home hunting rabbits all the way. Three or four more are perhaps just over distemper, and will fall in their tracks, to come limping and crawling home at noon. Rambler and Fairfax, however, having assisted at the finish, and being perhaps the most knowing old dogs of the lot, will have trotted round to old Colonel Peyton's close by. They are mighty hungry for Virginia hounds won't touch foxes' flesh-and they succeed in slipping into the log kitchen in the yard, while Melindy the cook is outside collecting chips, and abstracting from the top of the stove an entire ham. The said ham was just prepared for the Colonel's supper; but in fox-hunting all is forgiven. So after a little burst of wrath he reckons they are the old Doctor's dogs, shuts them up in the granary, and gives them a cake of corn is Saturday, and the Colonel's son, home from school for a holiday, thinks it an opportunity for a rabbit-hunt in the pines behind the house not to be missed. So Rambler and Fairfax are introduced to the proposed scene of action in the morning. After condescending to an hour of this amusement, they hold a canine consultation, and start for home, where they finally arrive about sundown, to be made much of by the Doctor, who has already heard of the finish from a negro who was splitting rails close by. His The Doctor's satisfaction is quite as great as if he had cut down a whole Leicestershire field in the fastest thing of the season. heart warms towards those undersized, harsh-coated, slab-sided little friends of his as he stands watching the negro woman breaking up their supper of hot corn-bread with buttermilk on the as a treat back porch. They have all come in by this time, and scuffle and growl and snap around the board as the food is thrown to them. The knowing ones take advantage of such an evening as this to assert, with more than usual assurance, their right of entry to the house. The Doctor has had his supper, and hopes that no ominous shout from the darkness will, for this night at any rate, call him to some distant sick-bed. He has drawn up his one-armed rocking-chair to the parlour fire, and by the kerosene-lamp is poring over the last oration on free trade by that grand old Virginia gentleman and senator, Mr Jefferson Randolph Beverly Page. Conscious, as it were, that some extra indulgence is deserved on this night, the dogs begin to crawl in. One by one, beginning with the oldest and wiliest and ending with the timidest puppy, behind straw - stacks, frisk and gambol in the fields. The blacksmiths' shops at the cross roads and the Court-house villages are thronged with coloured labourers and tenants, whose masters, now seeding-time is upon them, have suddenly remembered that every plough in the place is out of fix, and not a harrow has its full complement of teeth. The light breeze from the south-west moans softly in the pines; but among the deciduous trees not a withered shred of foliage is left for it to stir, and the silence is complete. The freshly awakened sunlight streams softly down between the leafless branches and the rugged trunks of oak and chestnut, hickory and poplar, and plays upon the golden carpet of wasted leaves that hides the earth beneath them. The Doctor, as he stands at the edge of the forest, would ordinarily upon such a day be deep in agricultural reveries of a most sanguine nature. But he is now waiting for one more note of evidence that there is a prospect of what he would call "a chase "-hesitating as to the widow Gubbins. Suddenly there is a great commotion in the wooded valley beneath, and in a few seconds you might be in Leicestershire spinny, so busy and joyful are the little pack with their tongues. "That's a fox, any way," says the Doctor to the sorrel mare; and, likely as not, a red." Two small farmers, jogging down the road, pull up their horses and yell with the peculiar shrill scream that is traditionally as much a part of Virginia fox hunting as the familiar cries of the British huntingfield are with us. The Doctor, though his voice is not what it was thirty years ago, catches the infection, and, standing up in his wooden leather capped stirrups, hallooes at his hounds in what he would call "real old Virginia fashion." 66 By G-d! it's a red," says one of the small farmers, who has perched himself on the top of the fence, so as to look down over the sloping tree-tops on to the opposite hill. "The dogs are out of the wood, and are streakin' it up the broomsedge field yonder-dawg my skin if they ain't!" This is too much for the Doctor. "Pull down the fence, gentlemen, for God's sake! and we'll push on up to the old Mathew's graveyard on top of the hill. We shall see right smart of the chase from there. I know that old fox; he'll go straight to the pines on Squire Harrison's quarter place." The four or five top rails are tossed off the snake fence; but the Doctor can't wait for the remaining six. The long spur is applied to the flank of the sorrel mare, the apple switch to her shoulder. Amid a crashing and scattering of rotten chestnutrails, the Doctor, cloak and spectacles, saddle-bags, pills, medicinebottles, and overalls, lands safely in the corn-stalk field upon the other side. The two farmers follow through the fearful breach he has made, and they may soon all be heard upon the opposite hill cheering and yelling to the hounds, which by this time are well out of reach of such encouraging sounds. Neither the country, nor the horse, nor the Doctor is adapted for riding to hounds; nor, as I have before intimated, has the latter any idea of doing so. The good man wants to hear as much as possible to see as much as possible-of the chase; but when he neither sees nor hears a great deal which, when a strong red fox goes straight away, is generally |