256 GUN, RIFLE, AND HOUND. 



Here is a day which may serve our purpose. In 

 response to an invitation of some weeks' standing, 

 a bright December morning found my dogcart rolling 



briskly through the park at . The sun had 



already commenced to dispel the hoar frost on the 

 grass, where the dun deer stood carelessly watch- 

 ing the accustomed sight of a carriage. In fact the 

 cob, nervous as horses always are of a herd of deer, 

 was the more frightened of the two. The horse's feet 

 rang sharply on the gravel of the outer quadrangle 

 till I pulled up and jumped out. At the sound of the 

 bell a stableman ran round to take the trap, and I 

 walked through the inner courtyard to the open hall- 

 door. In the great hall I found a typical group of 

 English sportsmen assembled. Our host, the Master 

 of the local hounds, and perhaps more at home in the 

 saddle than with the breech-loader, hastens to greet 

 me. Of the six other men assembled some were 

 known to me and neighbours, while others were 

 strangers. It was half-past ten, the hour which had 

 been fixed, but no one seemed anxious for a move. 

 A glass of Benedictine was not unacceptable after my 

 twelve miles' drive. At last a start was made. An 

 under-keeper brought me my gun and cartridge-belt 

 out of the dogcart, and we walked some half-mile 

 through the park to the wood outside, where we were 

 to begin. Here we were posted on a by-road facing 

 a small slope, and the signal was given to the yet 

 unseen beaters. Presently a hen pheasant comes 

 swinging over the bank, but sex is not sacred to-day, 

 and my neighbour on the right doubles her up scien- 



