or half an hour. Let
him who envies the condition of the man who hunts and likes it, remember
that a cold thaw is going on, that our friend is already sulky with
waiting, that to ride up and down for an hour and a half at a walking
pace on such a morning is not an exhilarating pastime, and he will
understand that the hunting man himself may have doubts as to the wisdom
of his course of action.

But at last Jorrocks is there, and the hounds trot off to cover. So dull
has been everything on this morning that even that is something, and
men begin to make themselves happier in the warmth of the movement.
The hounds go into covert, and a period of excitement is commenced. Our
friend who likes hunting remarks to his neighbour that the ground is
rideable. His neighbour who doesn't like it quite so well says that he
doesn't know. They remain standing close together on a forest ride for
twenty minutes, but conversation doesn't go beyond that. The man who
doesn't like it has lit a cigar, but the man who does like it never
lights a cigar when hounds are drawing.

And now the welcome music is heard, and a fox has been found. Mr.
Jorrocks, gallopping along the ride with many oaths, implores those
around him to hold their tongues and remain quiet. Why he should trouble
himself to do this, as he knows that no one will obey his orders, it is
difficult to surmise. Or why men should stand still in the middle of a
large wood when they expect a fox to break, because Mr. Jorrocks swears
at them, is also not to be understood. Our friend pays no attention to
Mr. Jorrocks, but makes for the end of the ride, going with ears erect,
and listening to the distant hounds as they turn upon the turning fox.
As they turn, he returns; and, splashing through the mud of the now
softened ground, through narrow tracks, with the boughs in his face,
listening always, now hoping, now despairing, speaking to no one, but
following and followed, he makes his way backwards and forwards through
the wood, till at last, weary with wishing and working, he rests himself
in some open spot, and begins to eat his luncheon. It is now past two,
and it would puzzle him to say what pleasure he has as yet had out of
his day's amusement.

But now, while the flask is yet at his mouth, he hears from some distant
corner a sound that tells him that the fox is away. He ought to have
persevered, and then he would have been near them. As it is, all that
labour of riding has been in