A FOXHUNTING JOURNAL 73 



fine run, a lot of music, and accounted for our fox, but 

 I never saw hounds at all." 



September 4th, scent was poor with the Cheshire hounds, 

 but they put one to earth at Brooklawn and killed another 

 after a short burst of about ten minutes, giving us a bit 

 of a gallop and an appetite for breakfast. There were only 

 five of us out — the Master, Bob Strawbridge, Paul D. 

 Mills, and Mr. Kerr. 



On Thursday, 7th September, the Radnor found a cub in 



Mr. Ellis's cornfield, hounds marking him in a drain on 



Bryn Mawr Avenue. After being bolted by the terriers, 



"Rags" and "Sting," hounds rolled him over on the bank 



of the I than Creek. My youngest son, Lawrence, age four, 



who was out on a pony on a lead, fell off just as he reached 



the kill, but was nevertheless successfully blooded by Will 



Lever ton! 



Saturday, 21st October, 191 6 



It is true to say of foxhunting, as of most sports, that "It 

 is the pace that kills." I think it is a remark more true of 

 foxhunting than any other sport. Certainly it is the pace 

 which kills foxes. 



We have all seen foxes killed — yes, lots of *em — but 

 I venture to say that any one of us, in any one season, can 

 count on the fingers of one hand the foxes he has seen 

 rolled over. By this I mean full-grown, native foxes, not 

 cubs or bagged fellows. But here I am again, preaching a 

 sermon, instead of getting down to the business of the day. 



Hounds met this morning at White Horse at six-thirty, 

 with a field of twenty-six out (a pretty good number for so 

 early in the morning, so far up-country); the Master put- 

 ting down a mixed pack of eighteen couples, ten and one 



