GRAFTON. 265 



Ing riding-country, and nearly all over grass. I hear murmur 

 and plaint from various quarters that rain is wanted. But 

 why ? Take it all in all, I maintain that this autumn has 

 been quite exceptionally favoured in the matter of scent ; and, 

 since we went into pink, the ground has been fully soft enough 

 for gallop and jump. No, we inherited a doctrine from those 

 before us — " the more rain, the better scent." But has this 

 axiom held with the seasons since '70 1 I think not ; but am 

 -open to correction. 



Monday was essentially a dry day — whether as applied to the 

 atmosphere, the soil, or our palates after an hour's hard riding. 

 The sun shone with an April warmth and with a November 

 slant — but fortunately became mist-hidden ere we turned to 

 ride into its rays. The air was quiet and warm ; and men and 

 horses alike carried every appearance of having been through 

 the oven by the time the run was ended. 



It began from a little wood, or rather copse, known as Hog- 

 staff, on the Favvsley estate, and about half a mile beneath 

 Preston Capes, the place of meeting. What the redskins of the 

 West would have termed a " heap big palaver " must have been 

 in progress in this bramble-grown cache. For no sooner did 

 hounds enter than a whole tribe of sleek furry fellows were 

 .afoot — dodging their astonished foes as best they could. One, 

 two, three, slipped away. A fourth fairly jostled against two 

 couple of hounds, and cut through the others, while a crew of 

 foot-people joined in to make the medley complete and noisy. 

 But he too made good the fence, and was away. No start did 

 he get, and for more than twenty minutes had never a chance 

 4o catch his breath. Judge, then, if he must not have been a 

 stout fox to stand before hounds — and worse still, before casual 

 viewers and shriekers — for a full hour, and escape at last (I 

 will explain my periods as I go along — and as I decipher the 

 run). 



From Hogstaff does Fawsley, the beauteous old-English 

 estate of Sir Rainald Knightley, stretch northward in pasture 

 and deer park — and with every facility to hand in the form of 



