288 FOX-HOUND, FOREST, AND PRAIRIE. 



MR. LORT PHILIPS. 



The title of "Grass Countries" is apposite enough to Tuesday, 

 Jan. 10, when we rode the turf of North Warwickshire and the 

 greensward of Northamptonshire for some two hours and a 

 bittock. Mr. Lort Philips was at Dunchurch ; and, if I mistake- 

 not, hunted the same fox as on the occasion of his last common 



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This time it was from Bunker's Hill. We had, to all appearance, 

 made the covert absolutely safe, in the interest of the one main 

 object of foxhunting. But, bother him, the fox found an outlet. 

 Not so easily encompassed was he. I must not stop to consider 

 how to put it ; for the story is a long one, if I fail to compress 

 it. Here is the skimming — till we come to the brook. We 

 went a beautiful line. Grandborough Village is but a mile to 

 the south of Bunker's Hill. Grandborough would have none of 

 him. The village was in readiness, and screamed him off. 

 Interruption of this kind is all against hounds settling, no doubt :. 

 but in this case it worked for the public good, and sent us in a 

 healthy direction. (I had forgotten to note that to-day was as 

 sultry and blazing as yesterday, and that the field took an idle 

 and hopeless view of the situation as at first presented to them.) 

 The start was slow, and scent seemed catchy and faint. Hounds 

 ran leftward under Grandborough ; and by degrees pace 

 freshened and improved. A brook, as you may know, threads 

 the valley before joining the Leame ; and here it offers all the 

 advantages of a screening hedge and a sound take-off. This was 

 our very first fence — and the occasion of such rolling about as 

 made a Morning Performance of itself. Each comer in turn cut 

 a slice off the farther bank : and each accordingly left it worse 

 for his successor. So, what with pecking, scrambling, and diving, 

 there was a heap of a variety. They rolled on the bank, and 

 they floundered below. One even stood on his head for a grace- 

 ful half-minute — with his white leather lowers poised upwards 

 against his horse's shoulders. I can tell you, however, that half 

 a dozen ladies took their turn of the chasm in safety — making 

 this a veritable creditable sign of the times. 



