320 FOX-HOUND, FOREST, AND PRAIRIE. 



How did it happen, and why ? Only a strong binder — extra 

 pace — excellent shoulders, and a knowledge of How not to fall 

 — a recovery in mid-field and a return to seat and dignity that 

 would have done credit to an Apache, and that did my grace- 

 less heart good. Robert, toi quej'aime. The pack lingered a 

 moment to see it, then went on to the cold plough, and forward 

 to a warm holloa. Over Arbury Hill — the centre, apparently, 

 of our good border gallops of this queer mingled spring of snow- 

 storm and high sport. Footpeople had guarded Badby Wood 

 (an idle neighbourhood this) ; so we Avent west, and embarked 

 upon Bicestershire. (If all of that shire were thus, what need 

 of Northampton or Warwick or Leicester ?) Across a brief 

 o-reen plain to Dane Hole, which is the covert of Catesby. 

 This at a good hunting pace (twenty minutes now). Through 

 the larch dingle hounds went steadily. Beyond they threw up, 

 ran on and again threw up, for another half minute — or where 

 should we all have been, amid the unbridged gullies ? When 

 all were ready they drove on again, following more or less the 

 valley of the Catesby brook : and turned up to Shuckburgh,. 

 reaching the great Hill, forty-five minutes from starting, horses 

 blowing fiercely. But a strong fox meant no lingering here. 

 He had dipped over the hill corner to the Napton side, and was- 

 on down the dell to Shuckburgh Village to the tune of John's- 

 scream, far before the world had got its wind on the summit. 

 (And when next I try that lower circle on a young one, may I 

 not be told to follow a mufti chestnut — or the gates shall be my 

 only timber.) 



Through Shuckburgh Village and out beyond, another epoch 

 of the run began. And, mark ye, it was only from where hounds, 

 climbed the Shuckburgh Hill that we reckon an eight-mile- 

 point, yet to come ! Hounds were a quarter of a mile to the- 

 oood of all but the second whip, as they crossed the turnpike, 

 and spun over the big pastures to Flecknoe. On the hill above 

 the village is a patch of gorse that almost invariably holds a 

 fox for the Warwickshire. The Pytchley went on harder than 

 ever, round the hamlet, and away for Braunston Gorse. For 



