282 FOX-HOUND, FOREST, AND PRAIRIE. 



pink belongs to better times. Readymoney Mortiboy has two 

 coats a year. Joseph and his garments are out of fashion. 

 This is the decade of 1880 — and you will please comport 

 yourselves and clothe yourselves accordingly — on credit if need 

 be — but in keeping with '87 still. 



A SCRATCH DAY FROM TOWN. 



It seems to me that one day's story per week is alone more 

 than sufficient for a hunting writer and reading public — how- 

 ever elastic may be Editor's indulgence and printer's capacity. 

 I have an invention half completed — and have already cut off 

 my old horse's mane to admit of the instrument being carried 

 on my bows. This is — denning it casually, for the invention is 

 as yet unpatented — a combination of the typewriter and the 

 pedometer — and is intended to mark passing events as they 

 occur, having a system of punctuation that shall, for instance, 

 mark an ordinary obstacle by a comma, a rasper by a semi- 

 colon, a severe peck by a note of exclamation, and a cropper as 

 a full stop. But, as I have said, this machine is not yet in 

 full work. 



Wednesday, Dec. 21. — Pytchley at North Kilworth. Tis 

 neither here nor there. But if ever life wears a gloomy aspect, 

 it is when London town is the starting point, and 6 a.m. the 

 call hour. Add to this a doubtful morning, and a still more 

 doubtful cab — I'd sooner be a second whip. And his is no 

 Sybarite's life, if I reckon it rightly — Pytchley of course 

 excepted. , 



A taste of the last cigar still lingers, long after Euston is left 

 behind. Papers won't interest — war never broke out on a 

 hunting morning. All that is disagreeable in life comes to the 

 front in the chilly atmosphere of a railway carriage. I am a 

 monk. But as a matter of curiosity what are the sensations of 

 the man who has had a " bad night at baccarat " before he 

 embarks ? Ugh — hot coppers are more bearable than heavy 



