STAG-HUNTING 



nobody can tell. " Rewin ! Rewin ! " cries the huntsman ; 

 and, after a few coy wriggles and yells, pretty " Ruin " is 

 emancipated, and displays her joy by knocking down a small 

 boy, and defacing a spotless pair of leathers, the property of 

 a gentleman who is very particular about his costume. 

 " Trojan " next responds to the summons, and the tale of the 

 tufters is complete. Sam shuts the door, leaves the pack under 

 the care of the whip, mounts his hack, tries the effect of his 

 voice to silence the hounds he leaves behind him, which, to 

 testify their disappointment, lift up their voices and lament, 

 but in vain ; and off we go to the edge of the covert, where, 

 under a friendly oak-tree, we take up our position, while Sam 

 and the harbourer proceed to their duties. . . . 



' Hark, " Constant " speaks ! " Ruin " confirms it. The 

 tufters open all together, and every eye strains to catch a view 

 of the game. Here they come : not what we want, but it 's 

 a pretty sight. A yeld hind in advance, a second hind which 

 knoweth the cares of maternity, her calf beside her, canter up 

 towards the tree where we stand — stop, sniff, and trot away, 

 as if they thought we were dangerous and to be avoided. 

 " Shiner " is close upon them, the rest of the tufters following 

 him. A little rating and a few cracks of the whip, and their 

 heads are up ; they know that they are not on the " real 

 animal," and as soon as Sam's horn summons them, back they 

 go, and resume their labours. Again they open, and again we 

 are on the alert. The cry increases — they run merrily, and 

 we are high in hope. 



' " Ware fox ! " says an M.F.H., the best sportsman in the 

 West, as he views Charley slinking along towards the gap in 

 the hedgerow. Then with his stentorian voice he calls out 

 to Sam, " Your hounds are on a fox, Sam," Sam does not 

 hear, but rides up within a hundred yards of us. " What, 

 Sir ? " " Your hounds are on a fox, Sam," repeats the 

 M.F.H. " Think not. Sir,' says Sam. " My hounds won't 

 hunt fox ! " "I tell you they are on a fox, Sam — call them 

 off," says the fox-hunter. Sam looks vicious, but he obeys, 



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