vens!" Mr. Jorrocks is right.--The southerly wind
wafts up the fading notes of the "Huntsman's Chorus" in _Der Frieschutz_
and confirms the fact.--Jorrocks is in ecstasies.--"Now," said he,
clawing up his breeches (for he dispenses with the article of
braces when out hunting), "that's what I calls fine. Oh, beautiful!
beautiful!--Now, follow me if you please, and if yon gentleman in drab
does not shoot the fox, he will be on the hills before long." Away
they scampered along the top of the ridge, with a complete view of the
operations below. At length Jorrocks stopped, and pulling the telescope
out, began making an observation. "There he is, at last," cried he,
"just crossed the corner of yon green field--now he creeps through the
hedge by the fir-tree, and is in the fallow one. Yet, stay--that's no
fox--it's a hare: and yet Tom Hills makes straight for the spot--and
did you hear that loud tally-ho? Oh! gentlemen, gentlemen, we shall be
laughed to scorn--what can they be doing--see, they take up the scent,
and the whole pack have joined in chorus. Great heavens, it's no more a
fox than I am!--No more brush than a badger! Oh, dear! oh, dear! that I
should live to see my old friends, the Surrey fox'ounds, 'unt hare, and
that too in the presence of a stranger." The animal made direct for the
hills--whatever it was, the hounds were on good terms with it, and got
away in good form. The sight was splendid--all the field got well off,
nor between the cover and the hills was there sufficient space for
tailing. A little elderly gentleman, in a pepper-and-salt coat, led the
way gallantly--then came the scarlets--then the darks--and then the
fustian-clad countrymen. Jorrocks was in a shocking state, and rolled
along the hill-tops, almost frantic. The field reached the bottom, and
the foremost commenced the steep ascent.

"Oh, Tom Hills!--Tom Hills!--'what are you at? what are you after?'"
demanded Jorrocks, as he landed on the top. "Here's a gentleman come all
the way from the north-east side of the town of Boroughbridge, in the
county of York, to see our excellent 'ounds, and here you are running
a hare. Oh, Tom Hills! Tom Hills! ride forward, ride forward, and
whip them off, ere we eternally disgrace ourselves." "Oh," says Tom,
laughing, "he's a fox! but he's so tarnation frightened of our hounds,
that his brush dropped off through very fear, as soon as ever he heard
us go into the wood; if you go back, you'll find it somewhere, M