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up and sterns down" with a will. Now for a shaking off of the cocktails. Ullo! here goes the master-for the occasion-bowled over like a shot rabbit, his horse having indeed put his foot into a rabbit-hole and come to temporary grief. It is soft upon the heather, however, and the horse, being a steady hunter, waits quietly for his rider as if nothing had happened, and they are soon endeavouring to make up for lost time again. But what have we here? A mine shaft? No, not a mine shaft, but a new conduit in a beggarly corner of a new "intake," and right in the line, unless you make a detour of half a mile or so to where you may get over without a leap for it.

The conduit is a poser, and few of that gallant company see their way to its effectual "negotiation." Leading over is as bad as jumping, for the clay dug out of the conduit and thrown up on the bank makes taking off and landing equally matters of difficulty. Some daring spirits charging with headlong impetuosity cleared the wretched concern in safety, though not without scrambling and with plenty of whip and Latchford. Not so a gallant captain of Her Majesty's Royal Fusiliers. His mare, a chestnut with white hairs in her mane and tail, essayed her best, but the ground proved too "holding" for her, as a Turf scribe would say, and into the gutter she went, while her rider rolled out on the far bank a very pretty lump of yellow clay as any man would wish to see. The mare, after the manner of the celebrated Emblem, whom, from this peculiarity, George Stevenswas the only man who could ride with any degree of security, had jumped the affair sideways, and the consequence was that she jammed herself fore and aft in the trench as safe as houses. There was nothing for it but to dig her out, and this was done after much delay and an assembling of louts with the necessary pickaxes. As Trewdale Park became visible we perceived the quarry careering round the palisading, and looking in vain for a practicable breach. It is one thing to get out of paradise, but quite another to get into it again. The stag was evidently not a frequent trespasser, and as the event proved, his knowledge of country was confined to his park and Fancy Wood, and the tract lying between those renowned spots. He made the entire circuit of the park without effecting his object; and this was a good thing for us, for if our now thoroughly alive hounds had got into the "paradise," goodness knows how we should ever have got them out and together again. He was headed back just as he had completed the survey of his home, and away he went amid a thundering volley of tally-hos across the moor again for Fancy Wood. He got no further than the river, where, having slaked his thirst, he stood bravely at bay. But it was all up with him, and the meanest

hunter who could "man but a rush against Othello's breast" might have pulled him down. The master performed this ceremony with his hunting-whip, and with his hunter's knife inflicted the mortal wound.

Forming a sort of basin with the skin of the neck, the master "christened" such of the hunt as were lucky enough to be up at the finish, and proud enough were they to go home bearing "their blushing honours thick upon them," no matter to what detriment of shirt fronts and waistcoats. That we had a sumptuous dinner afterwards to celebrate the event it is, perhaps, unnecessary to add; as also that the Squire of Trewdale honoured the feast with his presence, and accepted the best haunch for his private use. It remains but to remark, that in honour of the glorious exploits performed that day under the disadvantage of riding an untrained horse, the writer of this article was presented with the hide, which, after the manner of Brian O'Lynn's unmentionables, was transformed, with the aid of sartorial art, into a waistcoat, "with the skinny side in and the woolly side out;" and it has since often gleamed upon his manly breast in the forefront of battle when following even a nobler quarry than we found for "Our Stag Hunt."

SIRIUS.

A MORN OF MAY.

-In the wood, a league without the town,
Where I did meet thee once with Helena
To do observance to a morn of May.-Shakespeare.

When as a thousand virgins on this day

Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.-Herrick.

May, with al thyn floures and thy greene,

Welcome be thou, wel faire freissche May.-Chaucer.

SCENE: A FOREST BY MOONlight.

Bigbud, Starwink, and Streamfly.

BIGBUD.

LOW'RS, sleeping flow'rs; flow'rs tinted white,
Drink in the honey-dew to-night,

And by the morn be canty clear,

And daint of all days in the year,

For morrow is the morn of May

Merry morn of merry May.

STARWINK.

Moon, minion moon; moon, large and light,

Moon, looming moon; moon of delight,

Shed milky shadow, sheeny shine,

Show crystal countenance divine,

Until the dewy dawn of day,

For morrow is the morn of May.

STREAMFLY.

Brooks, blobbing brooks; brooks, breezy, fine,
Brooks, brimming brooks; brooks crystalline,

Be beautiful, and good and glad,
Sing lovingly to lass and lad,
Froth and bubble, shine and play,
When they come to gather May.
Bounce about the braided bramble,
Brush the briar, glow and gambol.
Bibble-babble pretty prattle,
Run among the reeds and rattle
Tinkling water-bells on boulders.
Carry hawthorn on your shoulders,

To the meeting and the swell

Of rills that dribble to the dell.
Root up every stinging-nettle,
Wash and whiten every petal
Brush each daisy in your care,
And be frolicsome and fair,

For lads will sing in the morning air
To merry maidens debonnair,
On this merry morn of May-

Merry morn of merry May.

BIGBUD.

Ho! ho green leaves and greener leaves, The mazy oaks with mossy sleeves.

STARWINK.

Ho! ho! the lake, a mirrored mass
Of lilac in the water glass,

And moony clouds to peer and pass.

BIGBUD.

Ho! ho! the budded boughs that play
Music by night, and by the day
Swing linnets under scented spray.

STARWINK.

Ho! ho the sky with silver bars,
The silver moon 'mong silver stars.

STREAMFLY.

Ho! ho! the moths in lunar light,
The Purple underwing and white,
Brindle moth and Golden Spot,
Bramble moth, Buff Tip, and Dot.
Mottled Willow, Peach and Pearl,
With dusty stripe and crimson curl.
Silk and satin, brown and red,
Burnished brass and Devil's-head.
Miller moth and Muslin moth,
Clouded Buff and Orange moth,

Beauty Pine and Purple Shade,
Holding revel in the glade,
Fairies all, for fairies made.
Ho! ho! the moths in lunar light,
The Purple underwing and white.

BIGBUD.

Let us go, while go we may,

Ere the shades shake hands with day.
At the village windows tap,

Lazy lasses' faces slap,

Bob and Bill, and Jim and Jack,

Take their whips and make 'em crack.
Bess and Jane, and Sal and Meg,
Pinch 'em, arm, and cheek, and leg,
Till they stretch and open eyes,
Yawn and yawn, and roll and rise ;
And as we go I'll sing the song
I've made me for the village throng :-

May, May, white May,

Through the village spread,
Come and make a garland
Of white May and red.

May, May, sweet May,
All about the green,
All about the May-pole,
All about the queen.

May, May, red May,

All the lads do wear;

With whitest of the white May

Lasses trim their hair.

May, May, musk May

Growing in the lane,

What is half as sweet as May
Washed with gentle rain?

CHORUS.

May, May, new May

Through the village spread,

Come and make a garland

Of white May and red.

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