fancy getting through the mud at four miles
an hour, and making two jumps at a ditch
full of water; that is to say, one into it and
one out of it.

Hot work this, though it is January, and I
have thrown away my cigar; it won't do to
smoke at this pace. Capital plan, by the way,
of carrying your gun, this, slinging it by a
strap over your shoulder, and steadying it
by your elbow, with your hands in your
pockets. I laughed at the others this morning
quietly and to myself, but I have changed my
mind since then.

Who are those fellows shouting so at the
dogs ? Why, they will clear the country of
game far and wide. The horn again, too;
what on earth is the use of that ? Halt!
Oh, very well, with all my heart; and what
are we to do now? Smoke cigars. And
down we all sit on our hats by the ditch
side, and the talking begins again until the
stragglers come up.

Well, here is a start at all events; the
beaters and dogs have struck into the wood
at last, whooping and shouting; and we are
to go round to a path half a mile off, and post
ourselves along it, waiting for the game. It
is my private opinion that we shall have to
wait long enough, and that the game will be
driven far enough, with all this noise, before
we get there; but I keep it to myself like a
prudent individual, and though I see one
dog—my little friend—whipped off his scent
after he had given tongue, because he was
not going with the others, I shut my eyes
to it, and hastening round with the rest,
am posted by order among some brushwood,
and wait the event. It is weary work this
waiting, and it lasts nearly two hours, during
which there falls a sharp shower, my feet get
wet and cold, and I know my nose must be
blue, so I light a cigar again and warm it. I
do not feel quite easy about my brother
sportsmen, who I know are posted in all
directions round me, and some of them did
not seem very familiar with the guns they
carried invariably on full cock, a detestable
and alarming method; but, ensconcing myself
snugly between two trees, I think there is a
fair chance of my not being hit, in case of an
accident, and pass the time in thinking of the
snug library I have left behind me at the
château.

Whoop! whoop! The horn sounds again,
and the dogs are giving tongue bravely.
Bang at the other end of the wood. Halloa!
The boars are a-foot! Stand fast! The
boars! the boars! Bang, bang, and the
sharp cry of a wounded roebuck, like that of
a child in pain, is heard; but still the dogs
give tongue, and they have evidently got
scent of a band of marcassins (young wild-
boar). Hark, that is the voice of my little
friend: yelp—yelp! yiow—yiow. I have
confidence in my little friend, and he yelps
nearer and nearer.

Here they come! five little pigs, snorting
and cantering, with their snouts near the
ground. I kneel down, concealed by the
brushwood, and think I will have one of
them, when I hear a deeper grunt, and a
fine boar, probably the respectable papa of
the family, appears behind at a stout trot,
a little beyond his natural pace, and there is
my small ambitious friend yelping at his
heels. I change my aim, and the next
moment the boar rolls over with his off forepaw
broken near the shoulder, and my small
friend closes with his immense antagonist.
Ah! little dog. It is a fine thing to be brave,
but it is well to measure the inches of a foe.
In a moment you will be thrown into the air;
and sure enough you are. Another ball in
the neck seems only to increase the rage of your
antagonist. Alas, my little friend! if you had
only waited until the other dogs had come up,
and had yelped at a respectful distance, you
need not have lost your life. Six hounds, and
some of good size and spirit, are now barking
furiously at the wounded animal, and none
dare close but one, who is thrown, ripped up
by the gigantic tusks of the wild beast, just in
the same manner as my deceased little friend.
But now, attracted by the firing and the noise
of the dogs, the whole hunt has come up.
I, too, have loaded again. There is a sharp
volley, and the gallant beast is struck in a
vital part, jumps once spasmodically, in spite
of his wounded legs, gives one long shriek,
and rolls over—just as a peal of village bells
come ringing along a stray wind, first like
a band of joyous singers, and then more
solemnly—and I hardly feel half reconciled to
my morning's work.

A dinner of milk soup, boiled beef, rusty bacon
(they have begun to make bacon in France),
and a roast leg of mutton, with some excellent
cognac, made of prunes (I do not trust the
village wine), completes the day, and the
next, and the next; though on the third, as
there is a high wind, we get no sport.

We have come out among the woods for a
week; but I notice at the end of the third
day unmistakeable signs of a desire to return
home, which I confess I share; though silently.
Some are anxious about their letters, some
about their wives, some about their
sweethearts, some about their farms or their stables;
and, all at once (nobody knows how or with
whom it originated), an idea seems to be
growing general, that it is a bad season of
the year for shooting, that the weather is
against us, and that the dogs won't work, nor
the keepers; and, in a word, that we had
better go home.

And home we go; although—having sent
away our own horses and carriages—in the
rather singular fashion of being seated two
abreast upon trusses of straw for seats, and
in waggons without springs. It is after an
unconscionable deal of jolting, and with an
amazing appetite, that I find myself between
seven and eight o'clock in the evening in the
antiquated chamber, dressing for dinner.