dead heat between them, till one determined rush, or a lucky turn decided the contest. There, was an old hand riding a waiting race against an inferior opponent; the hog twisting in front like a hare hard pressed, throwing out the leading horse at every turn, and when too much blown to avoid the spear, falling an easy prey to the man behind, who waited for the favourable moment to make his push. At the conclusion of this scene of slaughter, while the men were still standing by their horses' sides, a distant flag was observed waving. Every eye was turned towards the signal, and a hog, now dwindled to a mere speck on the horizon, was seen making strong running to the hills. It is as boar," exclaimed Rivers, " and an old one I am sure. Here's at him, who fol lows me?" Without another word, he sprang on the beautiful grey, which had already won three spears, and was off. One man only joined him, for all the others felt that their horses had done enough. That one was Blowhard, mounted on a well known white Arab, who had for many years distinguished himself more for his extraordinary bottom than his speed. Blowhead and Rivers were old rivals, and both were unusually anxious for distinction on this occasion. It was an interesting sight to watch the two alternately heading sach other in the long chase which ensued before they reached their game. They gained upon him rapidly; but before spears were used, Blowhard called out in a tone of deep vexation, "Rivers, I can do no more, poor old Snowball is done; I feel him sinking fast, and I must pull up." It was too true, the noble animal was utterly unfit to continue the contest. They had gone as the crow flies about four miles, over very trying ground, and Rivers found that his high bred grey was also showing symptons of exhaustion. He felt him labouring under him. He looked down and saw that his boots were soaked with blood, and then he almost resolved to stop. But the boar was nearly blown, and a few minutes more must secure the victory, which was almost within his grasp. Another weary mile was passed, -the pace had slackened to a canter. The boar, champing his foaming tusks, staggered along not two lengths in front, and the wearied horse, covered with sweat, and reeling from fatigue, still followed with unconquerable spirit. At this moment Rivers collected all his energies for one last effort, and

"Bending forward drove his armed heels,
Against the panting sides of his poor jade,
Up to the rowel head."

The blood of the Arab told. Although sinking from distress, he sprung to the spur, and closed with the boar. Rivers's heart bounded as he drove his spear deep through the ribs of the exhausted brute. But the fight was not yet done. The shaft snapped by a sudden wrench, and the furious boar stood at bay. He was too weak to charge, but pricking his

ears, and rolling his fierce grey eye, he waited for the attack. Rivers dismounted, and drawing his sabre, walked coolly up to him. On rushed the boar, the blade flashed in the sun, and the stricken monster rolled in the dust at his feet.

DECCAN.

Note. I can fancy some old hog-hunter abusing me for arming Rivers with so unsportsman-like a weapon as a sabre. But several good sportsmen carry one in case of being left defenceless by a spear breaking; and he whom I intended to sketch under the name of Rivers never mounted a horse without a heavy Mharattah sword at his side.

THE HUNTER'S JOY.

The sun o'er the mountain is rising in light,
And his rays on the fast-flowing streamlet are bright;
The mist from the valley is clearing away,
And the blythe lark is singing to welcome the day.

Then arise from thy slumber while morning is young;
Hark! the pack in the distance already give tongue;
The proud steeds are tossing their frontlets on high,
And the bugle-note tells that the cover is nigh.

See, Reynard breaks cover-look now how they fly!
And list to the notes of the pack in full cry!
The steeds dash so fleetly along the young grass,
That they scarce brush the dew from its blades as they pass.

Oh how wild is the joy of the hunter's career!
He dreams not of danger, he thinks not of fear;
His foot in the stirrup, a steed that he knows,
Neither brook, hedge, nor rail, can his progress oppose.

And who, when the joy of the hunt's at an end,
Has a heart more devotedly true for a friend?
Is their one who more pleasantly banishes care,
Or hails with more rapture the smile of the fair?

Then here's to the life of the sportsman, my boys!
Long prosper the chase, and its soul-stirring joys;
On him who enjoys them may Fortune e'er smile,
And Beauty and Love all his sorrows beguile.

MAZEPPA.

MOOR-HEN.

Engraved by DUNCAN, from a Painting by A. COOPER, R. A.

SOME account of the habits of this bird, which is also called the WaterHen, will be found in the following article by our valued correspondent Salopian.

THE COOT, MOOR-HEN, WATER-RAIL, AND DOBCHICK, OR LITTLE GREBE.

THE Coot, or bald coot, as it is generally called from the mark on its forehead, is a bird common on most of our large waters and meers. It is nearly black, and larger than the moor-hen, which it resembles in its habits, but from which bird it is easily distinguishable by the hard substance on the front of the head, springing from the root of the beak, and in form not unlike a garden-bean. This substance, which at other times is of a whitish colour, in the breeding season becomes of a deep crimson hue. The coot is of a bolder nature than the moor-hen, runs less, and, although only partially web-footed, swims strongly and well. It is fond of getting into the middle of extensive waters, regardless of bleak windy weather, which it seems to enjoy, probably because more food is brought towards the surface of the water in stormy weather than at other times. During the breeding season the character of the coot is quite changed, and instead of being a shy, timid, bird, it becomes very pugnacious, and fights with almost every bird which comes near it. At this period they are almost continually engaged in attacking each other. Uttering a sharp quick note of defiance, the coot erects its wings in a threatening manner like a swan, (which I believe is peculiar to those two kinds of water-birds,) and partly swimming, running, and fluttering along on the top of the water, resolutely offers battle to such of its own kind as may happen to be in its way. The weaker when obliged to retreat frequently turns round on its pursuer, and with upraised wings makes a show of resistance. They seldom come to a close fight of any duration, and though rushing towards each other from a distance with every appearance of rage, they mostly avoid an actual collision, one of them either fairly retreating on a nearer approach, or else turning short round and making such a show of resistance as deters his adversary from a close encounter. Those attacks and retreats are almost incessantly renewed, causing a constant commotion on the water all day long. Their nests are made in the most open and uncomfortable spots, generally among broken reeds, just above the surface of the water, exposed to constant cold and wet, and to the attack of every passing bird of prey. Nothing can be more cheerless than the appearance of the brooding coot, day