CHAPTER XVII 



HUNTING MISERIES: LOSING ONE'S START-THE 

 DOUBTFUL DAY— THE BLANK DAY 



I WRITE in a period of misery to hunting men. A 

 hard black frost holds the country in its iron grip, 

 and surely nothing could be more exasperating than 

 such abrupt cessation of sport. And yet I don't know. 

 There are other disappointments that come sometimes 

 to every hunting man, the very recollection of which 

 is sufficient to cause nightmare when we retire to rest. 

 Have all hunting folk their own particular nightmare, 

 I wonder? Some have confided to me that such is 

 their case. One fair lady used to dream that hounds 

 were running hard through the park of her old home. 

 She saw them from her window, and, rushing out 

 to the stable-yard, could find no one there. Never 

 mind, she would saddle her favourite herself ! Alas ! 

 old Schoolboy's box was locked, and "give her all the 

 world" she couldn't find the key. 



When my own old mare. Dyspepsia, comes round 

 ready saddled at about 3 a.m. on a frosty morning, 

 I invariably find that I lose my start in that endless 

 wood I know so well, w^here so many different rides 

 diverge in different directions. Why do I always 



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