A FOXHUNTING JOURNAL 23 



which many a good fox has broken on his last run before 

 the hounds. Jesse Russell, after a lifetime spent in cheer- 

 ing on the hounds, asked, as he lay dying, that he might be 

 buried on Hunting Hill in order that the cry of the hounds, 

 as they found their fox, might ring in his ears from season 

 to season until the end of time. His request was granted, 

 and his grave can be seen to this day on the northern side 

 of Hunting Hill. Scarcely a week goes by, from October 

 frost till the thaws of April, but the Rose Tree Hounds 

 come working over the woodland hilltop close by the little 

 stone-walled enclosure. The sound of the horn still echoes 

 through the trees, the opening note of the find still floats 

 out across the pastures towards Newtown, and the good 

 old cheer of 'Tally-Ho! Gone Away!' still rings on the 

 frosty air above the grave of Jesse Russell, farmer, a sports- 

 man to the end. He was but typical of countless others. 



"Our hunting farmers of to-day are men of the same 

 sort. They have made hunting what it is among us. The 

 farmers own the land on which the sport exists. They 

 alone can make or mar it. Like the brave old sporting 

 farmer of Hunting Hill, may they ever love the cry of 

 hounds and ever lend their aid to the sport, for, without 

 that, there can be no lasting success." 



I started out to write about to-day's run that followed a 

 most delightful breakfast given by Sam and Mrs. Kirk at 

 White Horse. There were quite a hundred at the party at 

 nine o'clock, and over eighty of them were hunting, which 

 speaks well for the popularity of our farmer friend. Sam 

 Kirk and his hounds are as much an institution in the 

 Radnor country as are the Radnor hounds, and when the 

 two packs hunt together, as they did to-day, good sport is 

 invariably the rule. 



