by the style of the hunting. If an elk is found, the hounds follow with
a burst straight as a line, and at a killing pace, directly up the hill,
till he at length turns and bends his headlong course for some
stronghold in a deep river to bay. Listening to the hounds till certain
of their course, a thorough knowledge of the country at once tells the
huntsman of their destination, and away he goes.

He tightens his belt by a hole, and steadily he starts at a long,
swinging trot, having made up his mind for a day of it. Over hills and
valleys, through tangled and pathless forests, but all well known to
him, steady he goes at the same pace on the level, easy through the bogs
and up the hills, extra steam down hill, and stopping for a moment to
listen for the hounds on every elevated spot. At length he hears them!
No, it was a bird. Again he fancies that he hears a distant sound--was
it the wind? No; there it is--it is old Smut's voice--he is at bay!
Yoick to him! he shouts till his lungs are well-nigh cracked, and
through thorns and jungles, bogs and ravines, he rushes towards the
welcome sound. Thick-tangled bushes armed with a thousand hooked thorns
suddenly arrest his course; it is the dense fringe of underwood that
borders every forest; the open plain is within a few yards of him. The
hounds in a mad chorus are at bay, and the woods ring again with the
cheering sound. Nothing can stop him now--thorns, or clothes, or flesh
must go--something must give way as he bursts through them and stands
upon the plain.

There they are in that deep pool formed by the river as it sweeps round
the rock. A buck! a noble fellow! Now he charges at the hounds, and
strikes the foremost beneath the water with his fore-feet; up they come
again to the surface--they hear their master's well-known shout--they
look round and see his welcome figure on the steep bank. Another moment,