A FOXHUNTING JOURNAL 85 



myself had better leave the subject alone; but, at any rate, 

 it's seldom that every pack of hounds in a country have an 

 exceptionally good run the same day. Once in a while you 

 hear of it, but it's generally something like this — it's a 

 non-hunting day, say Wednesday, and you are having 

 luncheon at your club in town, at what George H. Brooke 

 calls the foxhunters' table. Mr. Rose Tree asks Mr. 

 Cheshire what sort of a day he had yesterday, and Mr. 

 Cheshire says, "Fair, only fair; scent very spotty; plenty 

 of foxes, but we could n't do much " ; and Mr. Rose Tree, on 

 being asked, will say, "O! we had a boiler, hounds ran four 

 hours and a half all round our lower country"; when Mr. 

 Radnorite will pipe up and say, "We could n't do much; 

 put one under, but not a real run; south wind you know"; 

 but Mr. Glenn Riddle tells you his hounds only stayed out 

 about an hour, as they viewed two foxes away right in front 

 of hounds and they could n't even speak to the line: then 

 Mr. Brandywine, having finished his oysters, says, "That's 

 funny, is n't it, for our hounds had one of the best days of 

 the season; ran from right back of the kennels to the out- 

 skirts of Downingtown in just about an hour"; and so it 

 goes. Scent may be splendid in Thurstington Wood, but 

 just across the turnpike in Brookthorpe there's not a 

 vestige of a smell. 



But to-day all the neighboring packs found a breast- 

 high scent, hounds fairly racing at top speed. 



The Rose Tree ran an hour and forty-five minutes to a 

 kill; Mr. Riddle's hounds ran clean away from every one; 

 and after I had come home from a very fast thing with the 

 Radnor, I could hear hounds running in the country south 

 of my house for a long time. 



We met this morning at Battles' Wood (Brooks) at ten 

 o'clock, hounds picking up a line on the west side, almost 



