rounded by some half a dozen spaniels, and the shrill small tongue of one younger straggler of the canine crew, who had broke indecorously from the rest, and already entered the wood, might be just heard, softened down by the distance, into a wild, cheery sound, that animated, without disturbing, the serenity of the scene.
"After all," said Walter aloud, "the scholar was right—there is nothing like the country!"
"Be them Verses in the Psalms, Sir?" said the Corporal, who was close behind.
"No, Bunting; but they were written by one who, if I recollect right, set the Psalms to verse:[1] I hope they meet with your approbation?"
"Indeed, Sir, and no—since they ben't in the Psalms, one has no right to think about 'em at all."
"And why, Mr. Critic?"
"'Cause what's the use of security, if one's
