By Hedworth Combe
I heard a lone horse whinny,
And saw on the hill
Stand statue-still
At the top of the old oak spinney
A rough-haired hack
With a girl on his back,
And "_Hounds!_" I said, "for a guinea."

The wind blew chill
Over Larchley Hill,
And it couldn't have blown much colder;
Her nose was blue
And her pigtails two
Hung damply over her shoulder;
She might have been ten,
Or, guessing again,
She might have been twelve months older.

To a tight pink lip
She pressed her whip,
By way of imposing quiet;
I bowed my head
To the word unsaid,
Accepting the lady's fiat,
And noted the while
Her Belvoir style
As she rated a hound for riot.

A lean form leapt