474 FOX-HOUND, FOREST, AND PRAIRIE. 



in which some of the loftiest imagery of war and of the chase 

 have alike been couched. Is it not a picture of Winter's 

 sudden desolation 1 



There is something almost appalling — quite subduing — in 

 the stillness of a fog-frost following immediately upon the rush 

 of action and excitement belonging to recent weeks. Sport — 

 high-class sport — had become a matter of daily routine. We 

 seemed to wrap ourselves in it each morning as we donned our 

 coat of colour or fixed our spurs for the fray. We even grew 

 hypercritical and captious ; were satisfied only if pace, country, 

 point and finish were, all and each, completely to our liking ; 

 and thought ourselves ill-used if now and again we only tired 

 one horse in the day instead of two. Practically emphatically 

 — and thankfully — I for one declare that never, in a quarter of 

 a century of hunting in Shireland (put the beginning as young 

 as possible, please) have I known such an autumn — such two 

 months of brilliant, consecutive, sport. Every pack was running 

 hard nearly every day. No matter where you placed your 

 choice, you were never successfully met on the morrow with 

 " Ah ! Where were you yesterday ? You should have been 

 with us to see a run ! " It is no just reproach that, like the 

 rest of common mortals, you can only be in one place at a time. 

 Yet this should be the only drawback to the memory of Novem- 

 ber and December, 1889, at least for those whose stables with- 

 stood the pressure. If in all cases it was not the only one, has 

 been clue to individual accident, having no bearing upon the 

 season in its abstract perfection. Hunting men and women no 

 more than others — less, probably, than any others — wear their 

 heart upon their sleeve, or flaunt its cuts and bruises to the 

 crowd's inquiring eye. Every skeleton is left securely locked 

 in the home cupboard ; and beaming vivacity and lighthearted- 

 ness reign supreme. Has not the principle been grasped and 

 worded long ago, by the pen of all pens that is lost to us — 



It is good for a heart that is chilled and sad, 



With the death of a vain desire 

 To borrow a glow that will make it glad 



From the warmth of a kindred fire. 



