To Finish the Season 



' To finish the Season ! 

 Lonesome words 



That spell the end of your early jogs 

 Past waking woodlands and wind-swept bogs. 

 Through hedges snaring the morning mist 

 In nets of gossamer. One more tryst 

 To finish the Season ! ' 



WHEN the Hunting Appointments Card and the list of 

 meets in the newspapers announce the last hunt of the 

 season I always feel a pang of regret. Regret for the 

 kindling light frightening the shadows from the sleeping 

 woodlands; regret for the swirling mist dragging its 

 feet from the morass of brown bog; and most of all, 

 regret for the soul-stirring reveille of the hunting horn. 

 Spring, the season of nature's rejuvenation, is beautiful 

 in its very mysteriousness. All around one witnesses 

 this mysterious renewal of life. Without asking any 

 assistance from the pompous little busybody who still 

 has the nerve to call himself civilised, spring begins her 

 task, single-handed. The very atmosphere is filled with 

 promise, promise of the things to come; but their 

 advent heralds the death-knell of hunting. 



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