SOME MEMORIES 313 



December day are given up to the business 

 of eating ; for this is the last act in 

 the prelude to the most historic rise of 

 pheasants in the country, the famous 

 Scarborough Clump, and the line has 

 halted, as much to give the pheasants a 

 much needed rest after being run half-way 

 round the great park of Holkham, as with 

 any thought of human refreshment. The 

 guns stand lined out down a broad grass 

 ride running across the wood of fine oak, 

 ilex, and Scots fir, the deeper green of 

 the evergreens standing out boldly in 

 the winter sun against the ash tints of 

 the underwood. 



Lunch is dispensed by two boys — no 

 striplings these, for in Norfolk *once a 

 boy always a boy ' seems to be the rule, 

 and these are gnarled and wrinkled 

 veterans who will never see sixty again. 

 The first carries a huge loaf of bread, 

 half a cheese, and a canvas bag of raw 

 onions ; the gun draws out his knife, 

 hacks off what he wants, plunging his 

 hand into the bag for some onions, if he 



