THE FOX IN SUMMER 147 



enjoyed all over the Sister Isle in the sunniest and 

 bluest sort of weather. 



" There's a scent, you may swear, by the pace that they drive, 

 You must tackle to work with a will ; 

 For as sure as you stand in your stirrups alive. 

 It's a case of a run and a kill." 



I recollect listening to the remarks of a number of 

 sportsmen one morning a few years ago, as they 

 watched a fine pack of foxhounds gambolling round 

 the hunt servants at the try sting-place. 



"I think there won't be much of a scent to-day," 

 quoth No. 1 ; "so much dew and spiders' webs on the 

 hedges." 



" Sure not to run to-day," said No. 2 ; " look at 

 those hounds rolling about." 



" Never a scent with a north-west wind," remarked 

 No. 3. " What do you think. Sir Charles ? " 



The veteran thus addressed moved not the cigar 

 from his lips, but made answer between the puffs. 

 "Well, you young fellows seem to know all about 

 it. Now, I'm just old enough to know that I know 

 nothing about it at all !" 



Caustic the remark, but correct ; for what followed ? 

 Twenty minutes later hounds found their fox in a 

 woodland, and made the sylvan alleys fairly ring with 

 their melody, and the dry beech leaves whirled up in 

 red clouds in their tracks. They swept like a pent-up 

 torrent along a broad avenue, hard, white, and solid 

 as cement, twisted through a gateway into a stretch 

 of deer park, across which they flew, leaving spurring 

 horsemen far behind. Then throwing themselves over 



