84 FOX-HOUND, FOREST, AND PRAIRIE. 



fancy. The very reverse of poetry had been the earlier part of 

 the ride. A horse specially chosen for his placid disposition 

 and peaceful ways had recklessly ignored the trust reposed, 

 had turned traitor out of pure inconsiderateness, and made the 

 first three miles in merry sunshine a hateful and bone-shaking 

 experience by his silly pranks. At each village and every road- 

 side cot the beauty of the day had been turned to practical use 

 by the gudewives ; who, after spending the morning over their 

 washtubs, had now utilised the afternoon by hanging every 

 conceivable form of undergarment to flop in the breeze, and to 

 scare horse and rider out of their wits. 



So much (too much) of the late comer by the way. Owston 

 Village was reached at last ; and the long vista of the northern 

 edge of the Wood eagerly scanned. No sign of hounds — nor 

 sound, till a chance shepherd heard them in the distance, 

 beyond Robin-a-Tiptoe's ponderous slope. Then — with the 

 suddenness with which a Hunt and its surroundings always 

 break into sight — here they were, only a single field away, and 

 about to enter Owston Wood at its western end. Not the first 

 time by many was it that we had dipped into the great wood 

 — and in very much the same good and ever-persevering 

 company as now. But never has the deep clay of its rides 

 seemed half so difficult to traverse. To keep within hearing of 

 hounds and huntsmen as they worked hither and thither, 

 demanded a labour and a determination worthy of any cause — 

 and what better can there be than foxhunting? In ordinary 

 years we have at least been able to trot about. Now we could 

 only crawl and wallow — little by little. Horses were constantly 

 up to their very girths ; and frequently had to stop progress 

 altogether while they pulled their feet out with laborious 

 plunges. Before long, hounds were holloaed away on the 

 Withcote side, where the chief cross ride cuts the wood ; and 

 for the next five-and-thirty minutes they ran hard. 



"To-morrow at 11.30, gentlemen !" was the kindly decision 

 worded by the Duke of Rutland, when on Wednesday (Jan. 24) 

 it was found impossible for his hounds to throw oft* at Croxton 



