STAG-HUNTING 



headdress, consisting of a bandana twisted about his brows, 

 looks rather " out of order." He had a hat, but in the deep 

 ground the other side of the last wall, he shook it off, and in 

 the next stride Little Nell's forefoot planted it two feet deep 

 in a bog. Onward stride the hounds, mute as mice, and the 

 select few ride anxiously and carefully, hands well down and 

 helping their horses as best they can, each man wishing in his 

 heart of hearts that there may be a friendly check ere long, 

 except perhaps old !Mr. Snow, of Oare, whose threescore years 

 and ten have not tamed the warmth of his blood or his ardour 

 in the chase, and who now is in the very height of his happiness, 

 for below him he sees his own farms and the roof of his own 

 homestead, and under him " Norah Creina " strides along in 

 her lashing, easy gallop, with the confidence which an intimate 

 knowledge of every sod beneath her feet inspires and creates. 

 The ground is open. A little on a decUne and far away, close, 

 close to the wall of the Scab Hill enclosure, I see something 

 moving along " with hobbling gait and high " which I cannot 

 doubt is our quarry. Unless the herd shelter him, " this day 

 the stag shall die." Forward ! forward ! and again the hounds 

 lash and stride over the long sedges, the faintest whimper 

 possible from time to time announcing that they are running 

 on a burning scent, but have too much to do to be able to 

 own it. 



' We gain the wall of the enclosure over which the pack 

 scrambles with difficulty while the remaining horsemen seek 

 a friendly gate. A shepherd has \'iewed the stag, and to our 

 joy reports that he has not joined the herd, but turned to the 

 right to seek the covert, and take soil in the limpid waters of 

 the impetuous Lynn. Down rush the hounds, and we reach 

 the ford in time to see the body of the pack struggUng in the 

 foaming waters of the torrent, while the leading hounds are 

 carrying on the scent up the opposite steep. Onward we urge our 

 sobbing steeds, though some of the few who still keep their place 

 look as though they had had enough . . . and on Countisbury 

 Common catch the fresh and welcome breezes of the Channel, 



37 



