erime as it would be to shoot a fox in Leicestershire. But on these mountains, where the steepness of the hills and the swampy nature of the valleys renders it impossible to ride to hog, the practice of shooting them is permitted, and the rifle takes the place of the spear.-But hark! there goes the signal."

The distant notes of a bugle were now heard; and ere the echo died away amongst the surrounding mountains, the hounds came rushing over the crest of the hill, like driving mists before the blasts of autumn, and dashed gallantly into cover. Behind them advanced a line of wellarmed beaters, like skirmishers, in extended order, sounding horns and beating tom-toms to rouse the game. For some minutes these were the only sounds heard; but presently the voice of a single hound arose upon the blast, and echoed down the rocky sides of the ravine.

"Now then, my lad," whispered Mansfield, rising on one knee, and cocking his rifle, "look out, and screw your nerves to the sticking-place: the old boar will soon be afoot; and if once these dogs get fairly on his trail, they will not allow him to dodge long in cover. Hush! hark!— there he goes again: 'tis old Speaker; I know his voice well, and he is no babbler, take my word for it. There, now Racer chimes in-now Rodney takes it up. Steady, my lads, steady! 'Tis all right now, depend upon it."

Hound after hound now opened on the scent as it gradually became warmer, till, at length, the whole pack, in full chorus, came sweeping down the glen like a hurricane, rousing the startled echoes of the woods, and making the welkin ring with their joyous music.

At this moment Mansfield's attention was roused by a low whistle overhead; and looking up towards the summit of the rock which overhung them, he beheld his peon poking his head cautiously forward, and pointing with animated gestures towards the opposite side of the ravine. "The game is afoot!" cried Mansfield, eagerly grasping his heavy rifle, and raising his body a little, so as to command a better view. "And now I have him. See there, Charles, on the opposite side of the glen, just passing that grey rock which skirts the jungle. 'Tis the old boar, and as big a one as I have seen this season. By the hump of the holy camel, he comes, as large as a donkey!"

As he said this, his rifle was slowly raised, and the sight brought to bear upon the boar, who was sulkily trotting up a rocky path, occasionally stopping to listen to the hounds, and churning the white foam betwixt his enormous jaws. Charles watched the deliberate movements of Mansfield with breathless impatience; but, at the very moment he expected to see him press the trigger, the weapon was again lowered.

"It is a wild shot," said Mansfield, shaking his head. "I have killed at as great a distance; but three hundred yards is too long a range, even for Clincher to throw a ball with any degree of accuracy. Besides, from the direction the beast is now taking, he must pass within fifty yards of your uncle's station; and if he fails to kill him, (which, by the way, is not likely, for 'Kill-devil' seldom opens his mouth for nothing,) he is sure to cross to our side, and give us a good shot." Then starting to his feet, and waving his cap on high, he shouted across the ravine, with the voice of a Stentor, "Mark! Sir, mark! below you, and to the right!" The boar, startled by the sound of his voice, sprang forward, and began to bound up the rocky path with the agility of a goat; and at the

same moment the elder Lorimer was seen slowly raising his head from amongst a thick clump of fern, in which he had concealed himself.

"See, see!" whispered Mansfield, smiling; "how cautiously the old gentleman raises his head above the fern, exactly like a cunning old grouse-cock. Ah! now he catches a view of the boar, and 'Kill-devil' is about to speak. Silence, and watch."

The sharp crack of a rifle echoed amongst the rocks; but the boar only bounded forward with increased speed; whilst the cloud of dust which was knocked up under his belly, and the shrill whistle of the bullet, as it glanced from a stone, announced that it had fallen a trifle short of its intended mark.

"Missed him, by heavens!" cried Mansfield, dashing his cap to the ground, and stamping impatiently. "At him again, Sir-at him again. Give him the other barrel."

A projecting rock had for a moment concealed the boar from the view of Lorimer; but the instant he again appeared, the old gentleman pitched his rifle forward, and fired rapidly. The report of his piece was answered by a short, savage grunt from the boar, who staggered slightly; but immediately recovering himself, he turned sharp round, and scrambled with wonderful rapidity down the rugged side of the ravine.

"Good!" exclaimed Mansfield; "that shot told, although not exactly in the right spot. There is nothing like pitching your gun at them, and pulling quick, with swift-going animals.-And now, Charles," said he, turning to his companion, "look out, and let us see how you can handle a rifle. He is certain to cross to our side, and break within an easy shot of us, and, with an ounce of lead through his body, will not be quite so quick in his movements as he was at first. Down again behind the stone, and keep quiet."

A rustling in the bushes, directly below them, soon announced that the boar was at hand. The next instant the brushwood was thrust aside, and the enormous brute burst forth within twenty paces of them. His small twinkling eyes flashed with malignant fire, and the foam which besmeared his jaws was slightly tinged with blood. As he gained the top of the bank, he stopped for an instant, and turned his head on one side, as if listening to the hounds which followed hotly on the scent.

"Now is the time," whispered Mansfield, "be cool, and mind you hit him well forward, through the shoulder-blade if possible."

Charles, trembling with excitement, thrust forward his rifle and fired, making the white splinters fly from a tree beyond the boar, and at least three feet above him. At the same instant the unfortunate Heels, startled by the shot, sprang up with a look of wild astonishment from behind the stone where he had lain all this time enjoying a comfortable nap. The enraged boar no sooner got a glimpse of his white dress, than, uttering a savage grunt, he made at him au pas de charge, tossed him over his head, and sent him rolling and shrieking down the precipitous banks. Ere Mansfield had time to raise his rifle, the hounds had come up, and dashing without hesitation at the enraged brute, seized him by the ears.

Whoop to him, my gallant dogs! hold him and shake him!" shouted Mansfield, whilst the boar struggled in vain to disengage himself from the jaws of the powerful hounds. "Just look at that savage

devil Rodney, that large brindled dog between a hound and a bulldog; see how gallantly he stands up to him. But we must put a stop to this, or he'll rip the dogs to pieces. Here, Charles, my boy, pick up that spear which poor Heels has dropped in his agony. You shall have the honour of giving him the coup de grace."

Charles, delighted at having an opportunity of making amends for his bad shot, eagerly grasped the spear and walked steadily up to the boar. The brute, seeing him approach, redoubled his efforts, and. freeing himself by one tremendous struggle from the hounds, plunged madly forward; but Charles, whose blood was now effectually roused, coolly lowered the point of his unwieldy weapon, and awaited the charge. The enraged boar rushed with blind fury on his antagonist. The broad bladed spear buried itself deep in his brawny chest, and with one savage grunt of defiance he sank to the earth wallowing in blood and foam.

"Gallantly done, my boy!" shouted Mansfield; "we shall make a sportsman of you yet, in spite of the new tops and white inexpressibles. I see you have plenty of nerve to handle a spear, and only want a little practice to make you a dangerous fellow with the rifle.”

During this exclamation, Charles, who had withdrawn his bloodstained spear, stood leaning against it, and gazing in silent wonder at the gigantic proportions of the brute which lay gasping at his feet.

"Aye, he is a big one," said Mansfield," and his head will be a fine trophy to lay at the feet of your fair cousin. But he is dead enough now, and we may leave him to the beaters, who will do the needful with him, as soon as their work is over. Let us go now and examine the flight of your unfortunate page Heels, who, if I mistake not, will stand in some need of the leech's aid. Your old boar seldom makes a charge without leaving his marks behind; and I can tell you, from experience, that they are no love-pinches. I cannot help feeling for the poor devil, although I can hardly divest myself of the idea that the creature ought to be classed amongst the order quadrumana.”

Having returned to the edge of the glen, they beheld a prickly bush about half way down the hill in violent agitation, although no living creature could be distinguished through its tangled branches; and from the midst of it issued lamentations like those of a condemned spirit in limbo, mingled with fearful maledictions against the old boar and all his ancestors, male and female, even to the tenth generation.

"How the Pagan blasphemes!" exclaimed Mansfield, laughing heartily; for he was now convinced, from the energetic manner in which Master Heels expressed himself, that he was not so seriously hurt as he had at first feared. He is gifted with the true Malabar style of eloquence, and must have studied the noble art of abuse under the directions of his grandmother. There is no one who understands real piquant slang like your ancient Malabar dame; I would back one of them at any time to silence the whole battery of Billingsgate market. But we must go to the relief of the poor wretch, for he is evidently unable to extricate himself from the durance vile in which he is held by that prickly

bush."

Having scrambled down the hill, they succeeded, after some difficulty, in relieving poor Heels from his awkward situation. He had almost by a miracle escaped the deadly rip of the boar's tusk; but in other

respects he was in a very sorry plight. He was sorely battered by the fall-his white robe was torn to shreds and besmeared with blood; and his face was so dreadfully scratched and disfigured by the brambles into which he had fallen, that scarcely a feature could be distinguished. Having replaced his turban, which had been knocked off in the scramble, and wiped his face as well as he could with his sleeve, he thus addressed Charles in blubbering accents, whilst he busied himself in extracting the numerous thorns which still remained buried in his flesh. Suppose, master, please I take leave. This shikar business verv trouble business-jungle pig not good, he too much bobbery make—all sauce like tiger. Small shikar I can do very proper, but this jungle shikar too much bad. Suppose, master, cut off my head, I never can do that business."

The two sportsmen, after enjoying a hearty laugh at the expense of poor Heels, relieved his mind by assuring him that his services would no longer be required to assist in the much dreaded jungle shikar. and that he might take leave as soon as he pleased. The poor trembling wretch made a salaam of profound gratitude, and turning his face towards the cantonments, in spite of his numerous bruises, limped away towards home with a degree of speed which nothing but mortal terror could have accounted for.

(To be continued.)

KOONDAH.

THREE EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A WEEK.

BY L. E. L.

A record of the inward world, whose facts

Are thoughts and feelings--fears, and hopes, and dreams.

There are some days that might outmeasure years

Days that obliterate the past, and make

The future of the colour which they cast.

A day may be a destiny; for life

Lives in but little-but that little teems

With some one chance, the balance of all time:

A look-a word-and we are wholly changed.

We marvel at ourselves-we would deny

That which is working in the hidden soul;

But the heart knows and trembles at the truth:
On such these records linger.

WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN!

WE might have been !-these are but common words,
And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing;
They are the echo of those finer chords,

Whose music life deplores when unavailing.

We might have been!

We might have been so happy! says the child,
Pent in the weary school-room during summer,
When the green rushes 'mid the marshes wild,
And rosy fruits attend the radiant comer.

We might have been!

It is the thought that darkens on our youth,
When first experience-sad experience-teaches
What fallacies we have believed for truth,

And what few truths endeavour ever reaches.
We might have been!

Alas! how different from what we are

Had we but known the bitter path before us; But feelings, hopes, and fancies left afar,

What in the wide bleak world can e'er restore us? We might have been!

It is the motto of all human things,

The end of all that waits on mortal seeking; The weary weight upon Hope's flagging wings, It is the cry of the worn heart while breaking. We might have been!

And when warm with the heaven that gave it birth
Dawns on our world-worn way Love's hour Elysian;
The last fair angel lingering on our earth;

The shadow of what thought obscures the vision.
We might have been!

A cold fatality attends on love,

Too soon or else too late the heart-beat quickens; The star which is our fate springs up above,

And we but say-while round the vapour thickensWe might have been!

Life knoweth no like misery, the rest

Are single sorrows,-but in this are blended
All sweet emotions that disturb the breast;

The light that was our loveliest is ended.
We might have been.

Henceforth how much of the full heart must be
A seal'd book at whose contents we tremble?
A still voice mutters 'mid our misery

The worst to hear-because it must dissemble-
We might have been.

"Life is made up of miserable hours,

And all of which we craved a brief possessing, For which we wasted wishes, hopes, and powers, Comes with some fatal drawback on the blessing. We might have been.

The future never renders to the past

The young belief's intrusted to its keeping; Inscribe one sentence-life's first truth and lastOn the pale marble where our dust is sleepingWe might have been.