him  look  so  cheerful  before.  The  muscles  of  his  generally
severe  countenance  relaxed  from  their  accustomed  hard-
ness into  a  gratified  smile ;  in  fact,  if  one  might  say  so
without  offence,  his  lordship  for  once  in  his  life  looked  as
''  pleased  as  Punch."

And  now  the  noble  Master  consults  his  watch.  Time's
up — 'tis  the  half-hour  exactly.  The  hounds  move  on ;  horses
begin  to  squeal  and  kick ;  nervous  riders  begin  to  look
blue.  Away  we  all  go  to  Raddleton  Wood — a  sure  find.
A  wave  of  the  huntsman's  hand,  and  in  go  the  hounds,
and  whilst  they  are  busy  drawing  for  the  ^'  little  Red
Rover  "  we  will  mingle  with  the  crowd  in  the  big  ride
and  endeavour  to  pick  out  a  fresh  Flower  for  our  next
sketch.
^p  C\/hnr-'^'^^^


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(9)


MR.  GRIMBOY.
THE   FATHER  OF  THE  HUNT.
HINK  the  'ounds '11  find  'ere,  sir?"  inquires
little  Jack  Sprouter  (from  London),  splashing
up  to  a  solitary  horseman,  who  is  sitting
solemnly  on  his  horse  right  in  the  middle  of  the  very
swampy,  snipe-inhabited-looking  scrubs  belonging  to
Tackleton  Wood.  The  horseman  addressed  turns  round
in  his  saddle,  eyes  Sprouter  from  head  to  foot,  and  replies
grufQy,  in  a  most  decisive  manner,  ''  No,  sir  ;  I  am  of
opinion  that  they  will  not  find,  sir."

He  then  frowns  grimly,  relapses  into  his  former  statue-
like position,  and  proceeds  to  mutter  audibly  to  himself,
Mr.  Sprouter,  who  is  all  attention,  just  catching  such
interjections  as  "  Damned  railways. — Never  any  foxes
here  now. — Billy  Button. — Infernal  counter-jumpers  down
for  the  day. — Hounds  going  to  the  devil,"  and  so  on.
