HARE AND HOUNDS.

NED MORNINGSTAR'S STORY.

BY M. EYTINGE.

This ain't much of a story, only you fellows say I've got to tell something, and I can't think of anything else.

Harry Hunter was the one that first started the game. He came there just after Professor Weston had taken Merrit's place in the academy. He was a first-rate fellow, and a reg'lar out-and-out Englisher. He didn't really drop his h's, but it suited us to pretend he did, 'cause some English fellows do, you know.

Ben Price—he's near-sighted—came in one Monday morning with two pairs of eyeglasses on his nose, one pair over the other, and he looked under all the desks and into every corner.

"What ever are you looking for?" says Hunter.

"Some of those h's you dropped last week," says Price. "I'm afraid we won't have enough for this week's lessons if we don't find a few of 'em."

"No fear of that," says I. "Harry picks 'em all up as he goes along, and hangs them on to all sorts of words wherever they'll fit handy."

One thing about Hunter was he never got mad when he was chaffed, but just laughed with the rest of us.

But the riddle he gave us one recess when we were guessing conundrums and things!—it was just awful. "Why is that dog," he asked, "that I just saw run up the road, like an article in general use in country places after night-fall?" And when we all shook our heads, says he, as grave as a judge, "Because he is the cur-I-seen." Well, I rolled off my seat at that. It certainly was the worst conundrum I ever heard.

Well, Harry taught us how to play Hare and Hounds.

"An Irish game, I suppose," says Charley Bennet. "It sounds very like something I've heard our gardener say, and he's just over from the 'gem of the sea.'"

"No gem of the sea about it," says Hunter. "It belongs to merry old England."

Hare and Hounds is the correct thing. S'pose most of you fellows know it, but I'll explain if there's any that don't. You see we take pieces of rather thick paper—tearing up old copy-books and compositions is the best, 'cause thin paper would fly too much. That's for the scent. Then the hare stuffs his pockets, or a little bag he carries slung over his left shoulder, and away he starts, dropping a handful here and a handful there, and the rest of the boys—the hounds, you know—follow him by the scent, and catch him if they can. They're bound to follow wherever he leads, and he darts behind trees, and doubles, and does all sorts of things to put them off his track. If they don't catch him, he wins, and the hounds all sit down in a row and bark mournfully. Roy Wheeler added the mournful bark part. Harry Hunter and I were the best hares in school, and the hounds used to find it awful hard to catch us.

Well, we'd played it half a dozen times, and had high old fun, when one day we had a holiday (a half-holiday, I mean) 'cause—but I won't say any more on that subject; that's Al Smith's story—and all the other fellows had cut and run as soon as they'd had their dinner, but I staid behind to finish some Latin exercises. Hen Rowe was getting ahead of me, and the Professor and Mrs. Weston were out in the strawberry patch. And when I was through I started off to join the boys, and just got to the gate, when the Professor called me back and asked me if I would carry a basket of berries to the little lame boy that lived in Cedar Lane.

Well, it was quite a distance beyond the place where the fellows were to wait for me, and I was a quarter of an hour behind time now. But I didn't think of that a minute, for there never was a better master than ours, and I'd 'a given him the whole afternoon if he'd wanted it. So I says, "Yes, sir, with pleasure," and I takes the basket, and then I suddenly remembered that the cobbler lived in Cedar Lane too, and my best shoes wanted half-soling, and I went to my room and got 'em, and was a-going out of the gate once more, when Professor Weston calls out again, "Morningstar," and comes down the path.

"Tell the boys not to play Hare and Hounds to-day. Some of the farmers have sent complaints here by Michael Snow, and Snow himself says his early pease were all trodden down. He has just gone, and I promised there should be no more trouble of the kind. If the boys have commenced playing, stop them as soon as you can. And we'll talk over the matter to-morrow; for it's a fine game, and I don't want to stop it altogether. In fact, I think of joining in myself some day, but we must manage to avoid annoying our neighbors."

"You can depend upon me, sir," says I; and off I starts again, basket of strawberries on one arm and shoes under the other. When I got almost to Michael Snow's grounds I saw the boys standing in a crowd round Harry Hunter under the big tree outside of the fence. Hunter was just strapping the bag of papers under his left arm—the bag meant a good long run; pockets, a short one—and when they caught sight of me they set up a shout like a pack of wild Indians.

"Hi! hello! here's Morningstar. Now look out for yourself, Mr. Hare."

"He won't catch me to-day, I bet," says Harry. "Rule Britannia, and Rowell forever!" and off he goes.

Down went the strawberries and shoes under the tree.

"Hail, Columbia! and Yankee Doodle! and Fourth of July!" I yelled, and away I go after him, and all the rest after me.

Over Snow's fence vaults Harry, and over it the hounds vault too. Through the apple orchard, down to the bean patch, in and out among the bean poles, behind the barn, over a pile of empty flower-pots—and such a smash!—until the other end of the farm was reached, where there was a stone wall, but some of the stones had fallen in one place near the ground, and left quite a big hole. The hare flattened himself as flat as a pancake, and was on the other side in a jiffy. And I flattened myself, wondering why the other fellows had stopped a-hollering behind me, and I was half-way under, when somebody grabbed me by the heels and jerked me out again, and in another minute I was standing before Michael Snow and Professor Weston. All of a sudden—it had gone clean out of my head until then—I remembered I had promised the Professor.

"Upon my word and honor, sir," said I, looking straight into his eyes—he's got awful nice eyes, only kind of stern sometimes, and this was one of the times—with a cold shiver running down my back, "I forgot. They were just starting as I came along, and Harry Hunter hurrahed for 'Britannia and Rowell,' and I hurrahed for 'Hail, Columbia.'"

"And 'Yankee Doodle, and Fourth of July,'" says Snow, with a grin, and the Professor's eyes began to twinkle.

"You needn't say any more, Morningstar," says he, "for I know when one of my boys gives his word of honor he is telling nothing but the truth. But your memory must have a lesson. It needs cultivating. Go back to the school-room. I will arrange matters with Mr. Snow, and be there in half an hour."

Back I went, feeling bad enough, to the tree where I'd left the berries and shoes. Jerry O'Neill was sprawling on the grass—he's the fellow that eats everything he can get hold of, you know—and he handed me the empty basket. "I ate 'em," says he; "I thought they was yours, and you wouldn't mind." The shoes were gone. "I guess a tramp I met took 'em," says Jerry. "He had a bundle sticking out of one of his coat pockets."

When the Professor came in he told the boys himself what I had promised to tell them, and then he said: "I'm sorry to punish Morningstar, but, as I told him a short time ago, his memory needs a lesson. And so I shall be obliged to ask him to go every play-hour to Michael Snow's grounds and give him his services, until such time as Snow shall consider himself repaid for the damage done to-day."

"Oh, I say now, that won't do at all," blurts out Harry Hunter, turning very red, "I beg pardon, sir, but what I'd like to say is this: Morningstar forgot his promise in his wish to uphold the honor of his country, sir—"

"And we'll all go with him this very afternoon, sir," says Walt Ray, "with your permission, and by night-fall the Snow place will be as good as ever."

"And we'll pay for the broken flower-pots, sir," says little Al Smith—the best little chap in the world—can't bear to see any one punished.

The Professor smiled. That was enough. We all smiled, and then we gave him a rousing cheer, and rushed down to Snow's.

Snow wasn't half bad. He laughed right out when he saw us coming, and in less than two hours, we'd done all the work he said he wanted us to do, and were eating fresh-baked gingerbread—Mrs. Snow made it—and drinking milk in the barn. Jerry O'Neill ate so much that he had awful dreams that night—thought a whole procession of elephants was walking over him.

And I've never forgotten a promise since that Hare-and-Hounds day. It was the best lesson my memory ever got.