MR. HITCHCOCK'S 



year or so ago, that we are tempted to give them in full. It was after a 

 day with the Middlesex hounds in Virginia, and Mr. Hitchcock, on the 

 train to Washington that evening, in the company of the M. F. H., 

 expressed himself as follows : — 



" You mark my words," he said, " you'll change, just as I did. Fifteen 

 years ago I thought there was nothing like the English foxhound, and I am 

 not sure there is for his own country, but not for America, and certainly 

 not for the dry sandy soil of my South Carolina country. You see, the 

 country about Aiken is wooded with scrub, the going is rough, although 

 there is nothing much to stop you except the creeks, which are swampy 

 and impossible to cross except at certain fords — there is practically no wire, 

 thank Heaven! — and the jumping is not big. Now, taking these facts into 

 consideration, and they are largely true of many of the hunting countries in 

 America, we've got to have a hound with a lot of initiative, because in 

 many cases the huntsman won't be there to help him, a very keen nose, be- 

 cause the scent is bad, and lots of voice to tell us where he is. I don't 

 think English hounds have these points, at any rate in so great a degree as 

 the Americans. 



" At Aiken, we hunt early in the morning, just about daylight. We have 

 to do so to take advantage of the dew, — as the soil is fearfully dry, so 

 much so that I don't think an English hound would own a line half the 

 time. You saw the trouble to-day when the line was foiled by a cur dog 

 and your hounds were at fault. They picked it up again, of course, and 

 hunted it beautifully, but, they had to be cast to do it. English hounds waste 

 time, that's the trouble, and you can't waste time when you're hunting a 

 fox." The Master of the Middlesex smoked on in silence and Mr. Hitch- 

 cock continued: "Scent's a queer thing; nobody understands it, and every- 

 body has theories about it, mine is this" — he took a couple of puffs from 

 his cigar and drew the unlighted end along his coat-sleeve. A little of the 

 smoke clung to the cloth, as it always does, gradually floating away. 

 " That's my idea of scent," he said, " it's as elusive as that. Now, if that 

 coat were damp, you know it would stay there longer ; so it would if the 

 wrind didn't blow it off. In England the atmosphere and the condition of 



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