72 FOX-HOUND, FOREST, AND PRAIRIE. 



his inability to find the pack among the horsemen clustering in 

 the meadow. Suspicions once roused were soon verified by the 

 sharp twang of Frank Beers' horn, and by the sudden flashing 

 off into the darkness of the huntsman himself. From so tiny a 

 covert there could be no need in waiting for every hound to be 

 out — or the leading couples might slip away altogether in the 

 fog. So, with horn going lustily, the huntsman drove along 

 close to the head — every hound straining to be there. As the 

 chesnut disappeared through the first tall bullfinch, there was 

 at once a rush to reach the gap and to keep the pilot in sight. 

 No easy matter, either, were it not for the tail-hounds hurrying 

 on the line. For vision was limited to less than a hundred 

 yards ; and the pack, close on its fox, was racing furiously. 

 Twixt river and canal — over a line of strongly fenced meadows — 

 they were running towards Buckingham. Now a gate, then a 

 flying fence — horses in their stride — hounds flickering in ghostly 

 swiftness just ahead — your blood fully warmed — and the object 

 of your life not to be unsighted or left behind. Two rustic 

 forms suddenly looming in the darkness — waving and shouting 

 as if to warn from a stone quarry. " Bear to your left ! To 

 your left ! " Why ? what ? where ? Strain as you will to 

 pierce the fog, there is nothing to break the impalpable plain. 

 Yes, now it is to be seen ! A brook — its banks as level as the 

 borders of a garden walk ! It is only fifty yards in front. 

 Horses are speeding along well in hand — and of course every 

 horse in the county of Buckingham jumps water. Neither 

 man nor horse can possibly stop now. And this is the sort of 

 brook for which in other countries we so often yearn — flat, fair, 

 and jumpable anywhere. Another second, and we shall be 

 skying away across yonder field, singing under the breath, " He 

 shook his lean head as he heard them go flop." Oh, you 

 brute ! May you some day die of thirst ! Here we are, a 

 merry crew — five drenched and crestfallen competitors toiling 

 up the opposite bank, and tugging their faithless steeds after 

 them. The huntsman, meanwhile, has skimmed from bank to 

 bank — Mr. H. Bourke on his strong white horse landing side 



