were running breast high. Ten yards ahead of me was Mr. Frank
G----, on a Stormer colt, evidently with no notion of turning; so I
hardened my heart, felt my bay nag full of going, and kept my eye on Mr.
Frank, who made for the only practicable place beside an oak-tree with
low branches, and, stooping his head, popped through a place where the
hedge showed daylight, with his hand over his eyes, in the neatest
possible style. Without hesitating a moment I followed, rather too fast
and too much afraid of the tree, and pulled too much into the hedge. In
an instant I found myself torn out of the saddle, balanced on a
blackthorn bough (fortunately I wore leathers), and deposited on the
right side of the hedge on my back; whence I rose just in time to see
Bay Middleton disappear over the next fence. So there I was alone in a
big grass field, with strong notions that I should have to walk an
unknown number of miles home. Judge of my delight as I paced slowly
along--running was of no use--at seeing Frank G---- returning with my
truant in hand. Such an action in the middle of a run deserves a Humane
Society's medal. To struggle breathless into my seat; to go off at
score, to find a lucky string of open gates, to come upon the hounds at
a check, was my good fortune. But our fox was doomed--in another quarter
of an hour at a hand gallop we hunted him into a shrubbery, across a
home field into an ornamental clump of laurels, back again to the
plantation, where a couple and a half of leading hounds pulled him down,
and he was brought out by the first whip dead and almost stiff, without
a mark--regularly run down by an hour and twenty minutes with two very
short checks. Had the latter part of the run been as fast as the first,
there would have been very few of us there to see the finish.

ON THE LINCOLNSHIRE WOLDS.

I started to meet Lord Yarborough's hounds, from the house of a friend,
on a capital Wold pony for cover hack. It used to be said, before
non-riding masters of hounds had broadcasted bridle-gates over the Quorn
country, that a Leicestershire hack was a pretty good hunter for other
counties. We may say the same of a Lincolnshire Wolds pony--his master,
farming not less than three hundred and more likely fifteen hundred
acres, has no time to lose in crawling about on a punchy half-bred
cart-horse, like a smock-frocked tenant--the farm must be visited before
hunting, and the market-towns lie too far off for five miles an ho