don't be in a hurry to make your cast.

Let

them have time to hit off the scent themselves; but, if they can't do it, make your cast wide and for'ard, and be sure that it's a perfect one before you try another.-When you are running a fox, the scent bad, and the fox a long way before, without having been pressed, if he should be making for strong earths that are open, or for large covers full of game, take off the hounds at the first fault they come to; the fox will go many miles to your one, and, in all probability, will run you out of all scent.Where the vermin are plenty, you must be careful not to run the heel; for hounds can run, sometimes, the wrong way of the scent better than they can the right, where one is up the wind, and t'other down. Lift your tailhounds, and get 'em to the rest; but be cautious that you don't lift any for'ard before the others; it's dangerous, and very clumsy work. But the most difficult of all that you've got to do is to learn the difference between one scent and another, and to know with certainty that of your hunted fox. This requires

a nous, and a judgment above the heads of most men. Few can comprehend the art, and it's one that can be learned only with practice; but you'll hit it off, Will, by and by, I know."

"Hope I shall, governor," said Will; " but you must be getting dry with your long stretch; come, wet your whistle."

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Stop a minute; I've nearly done, and then I'll top up with a glass," replied the old man. "When you're at fault, and the hounds can't make it out of themselves, let your first cast be quick; the scent is then good, and they're not likely to go over it. As the scent gets worse, let the cast be slower and more cautiously made, and when the hounds are picking along a cold scent, don't cast them at all. There are other rules to think of besides these; but what I've told you are the general ones, which, I hope, you'll follow as closely as your hounds will a fox, when they've the chance."

"Certainly, governor; and I'm much obliged to you for them," said Will. "Not a man

living knows more about the bow-wows than you.”

The old man smiled at the compliment, and said, "It's a bitter cold night; 'faith I think it a fair excuse for a little more warm comfort. Come, spice up some ale, and clap it on the fire, Will."

With ready hand, Will obeyed the order, by filling the bright kettle with "the blood of Sir John Barleycorn," and adding to it nutmeg, cloves, sugar, and a crust of brown bread. The concomitants soon hissed and steamed fragrantly upon the bright embers, which caused a second edition of twitching from the old man's organ of smell.

What, again!" exclaimed Will," why you're as game as old Merryman was."

Ay, he was a tearer," said the old man with enthusiasm.

"An out-an'-outer," continued Will. "I shan't put my eyes upon his like, that's my belief, without I see his spirit again," joined the old man seriously.

"His what!" exclaimed Will, stopping with

surprise, in the act of pouring the prepared beverage into a flagon.

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"His spirit, I say," replied his father.

But, go on, my boy, that stuff smells un

common nice."

In accordance with his wish, the savoury mixture was conveyed to the palate of the old man, and, after being pronounced "excellent," he took his tobacco-box from a capacious pocket in his scarlet coat, which he always wore, and commenced filling his pipe a second time.

"Instead of smoking, governor, I wish you'd say what you meant by seeing Merryman's spirit again,” said Will. "One would suppose that you had seen it already."

"So I have, my boy," replied his father. "Have you, though!" exclaimed Will, a disbeliever in ghosts, hobgoblins, and all sorts of immaterial things, through which "the moon shines unchecked."

"The fact is, my son," slowly said the old man, with a contemplative look at the whitewashed ceiling, and a smack of his lips, which

is often a demonstration of self-importance, "I've my own particular notions as to spirits, and such like. Why shouldn't there be ghosts of dead monkeys, as well as dead mortals, I should like to know! A man isn't a more wonderful beast than a monkey, and both are damned rascals generally, to say the best of them. Some people, particularly parsons, pretend to say that when a monkey 'turns his toes up to the roots of the daisies,' there's an end of him. Stuff o' nonsense! There's no end to any thing. The old bricks and mortar are worked fresh into other buildings, after this fashion monkeys become Christians, being next to human nature, and Christians, as tops of the tree, again become hay-seed, or cabbage-plants- that is to say, their shells, or outsides so alter-their spirits may be disposed of differently; but I think they accompany the carcase, or vegetable, as the case may be."

"Why, governor, you're not a Christian," said Will.

"The Archbishop of York couldn't prove