Tom Peregrine suddenly appears out of a hedge, where he has been watching the antics of the cubs at the mouth of the fox-earth.  He has grown very serious of late, and tells you repeatedly that there is going to be another big European war shortly.  Let us hope his gloomy forebodings are doomed to disappointment.  Surely, surely at the end of this marvellous nineteenth century, when there are so many men in the world who have learnt the difficult lessons of life in a way that they have never been learnt before, nations are no longer obliged to behave like children, or worse still, with their petty jealousies and bickerings and growlings, “like dogs that delight to bark and bite.”

Tom Peregrine, having done but little work for many months, is now making himself really useful, for a change, by copying out parts of this great work; and, to do him justice, he writes a capital, clear hand.  He is very anxious to become secretary to “some great gentleman,” he says.  If any of my readers require a sporting secretary, I can confidently recommend him as a man of “plain sense rather than of much learning, of a sociable temper, and one that understands a little of backgammon.”  There is no fear of his “insulting you with Latin and Greek at your own table.”  He would have suited Sir Roger capitally for a chaplain, I often tell him; and though he hasn’t a notion who Sir Roger may be, he thoroughly enjoys the joke.

The fox-covert presents a strange appearance.  It is full of young spruce trees, and the lower branches have been lopped down, but not cut through or killed.  Under each tree there is now a grand hiding-place for foxes and rabbits—­a sort of big umbrella turned topsy-turvy.  The rabbits appreciate the pains we have been at; but I fear the foxes, for whom it was intended, at present look on the shelter with suspicion.  They dislike the gum which oozes continually from the gashes in the bark; it sticks to their coats, and gives an unpleasant sensation when they roll.  They cannot keep their beautiful coats sleek and glossy, as is their invariable rule, as long as their is any gum sticking to them.

How clearly we can see the Swindon Hills in the bright evening atmosphere!  They must be more than twenty miles away.  The grand old White Horse, making the spot where long, long ago the Danes were vanquished in fight, is not visible; but he is scarcely to be seen at all now, as the lazy Berkshire people have neglected their duty.  He really must be scoured again this summer; he is a national institution.  Londoners take a much greater interest in him than do the honest folk who live bang under his nose.

We must continue our excavations at Ladbarrow copse yonder.  Men say it is the largest barrow in the county, full of “golden coffins” and all sorts of priceless antiquities!  At present all we have discovered are some bones, with which we stuffed our pockets.  When we arrived home, however, they were found to have belonged to a poor old sheep-dog that was buried there.  But see! the setting sun is tinging the tops of the slender, shapely ash trees in yonder emerald copse.  The whole plain is changing from a vast arena of golden splendour to a mysterious shadowy land of dreams.  A fierce light still reveals every object on the hill towards the east; but westwards beneath yon purple ridge all is wrapped in dim, ambiguous shade.