"I'VE been on the Hare and Hounds. We've had a beastly run!" This was the explanation that my chum made when I returned from dinner and found him in the midst of dirt and confusion.

"Another case of 'the last of your race,' I suppose," said I, taking my books. (My chum, you know, is the 174th great-grandchild of somebody; at least, he says so.)

"Say, All Don't you think it would be a good thing for the Advocate? After Walter Scott, eh? Let's see, how does it begin?

"Harp of the Chase!" - (A long pause, then)

"'T were hard to say what hounds gave o'e,

As sped the chase through Cambus-moor.

And when they came to No-names rill,

The foremost leader e'en stood still.

Up, up, you hounds! rouse ye, ho!

Tally ho! Tally ho! ye, ho!"

"I should say that was very much after Walter Scott. Go to bed!" The only answer was the following lullaby:-

"Poor hound, rest! thy chase is stayed,

Fellow hounds are by thee flying.

Sleep! nor dream in yonder glade

How thy tennis-shoes are lying."