OVEE THE BOEDER 287 



that is purely local to the counties where I was, there 

 is no holloaing in Scotland, a fact that alone divides 

 it by an enormous gulf from English provincial sport. 



The northern part of our island is not that to 

 which we traditionally go for fun — to put it mildly, — 

 and, indeed, Scottish hunting is a serious business 

 enough. Very few humorous incidents remain in my 

 mind as having been witnessed there, and of these 

 one is perhaps funnier in the recollection than in the 

 telling. Having secured a bad start from one of the 

 few gorse coverts in the country, I came "pasting" 

 downhill towards a post and rails, but concealed from 

 the adjoining field by a bullfinch at right angles 

 thereto. Thus, at the bottom, I came unperceived 

 on a white-haired lady seated on a cob, the said cob 

 being seated also — on his haunches. The lady's crop 

 and tongue were alike busy, and, but that ladies 

 never — well, hardly ever — use the "big, big D," I 

 should surmise that the recording angel was at work. 

 It was evident that the cob had tried to refuse, slipped 

 up, and cannoned " sejant,^' as the heralds say, into 

 the rails. However, our fox turned out to be a gravid 

 vixen, and not very far on hounds were stopped, so no 

 harm was done. 



On another occasion hounds were running smartly 

 when the apparition of an extra high rail-fence, with 

 sharply sloping ground beyond, sent myself and 

 another to the gate at its end, I holding his nag 

 whilst he wrestled with the complicated fastenings. 

 Enter to us one of the young bloods of the chase. 



" Bit too much of a drop to that fence," he re- 

 marked, ' * but / jum]}ed it last year ! " 



One peculiarity is common to most if not all Scot- 

 tish hunting countries, and it is one uncommon in 



