The First Draw of the Season 



the light improves; it pours down upon it from a long 

 gash in the ceiling of leaves which its downfall has 

 created. A broken laurel droops across the mutilated 

 stump in a friendly but futile effort to shield a wound 

 that can never heal. The wood soon shows its anger 

 in real earnest and, as though in reprisal, prohibits 

 further penetration; its privacy being preserved by a 

 pathway, sodden, waterlogged and utterly impassable. 



A narrow track on the left, at right-angles to the main 

 path, bears the imprint of hooves, the hooves of the 

 Master's horse. The cavalcade follows them, riding in 

 single file. With heads down and arms shielding eyes, 

 they bore along through the dense undergrowth. Hats 

 get an occasional tilt from an outstretched laurel. One 

 sapling of silver birch, unaccustomed to so many visitors, 

 seems to possess an unusual flair for facetiousness and 

 pokes fun at every passer-by. 



The cotton-wool on bandaged tendons that looked so 

 elegant at the Meet is now filthy beyond recognition. 

 The well-groomed hides are streaming with mud. 

 Glossy top-hats and sombre bowlers are mud-pelted. 

 Immaculate cravats bear designs that would horrify a 

 Chinese laundry-man. Breeches look as though the 

 family terrier after emerging from a muddy drain 

 had been allowed to sleep on their owner's lap. 

 The colourings in scarlet coats, black coats or grey 

 coats, when viewed from the front, are nearly all the 

 same. The apparel may be sodden, but the faces are 

 happy. 



All discomforts are forgotten in the scramble over the 

 big bank out of the wood. There are the hounds in 



47 



