60 HUNTING AND SPOBTING NOTES. 



ran merrily over a good line, but then scent grew catchy, 

 and the fox began his crooked tactics, circling about 

 hetween Eanton and Edenhall, once or twice touching 

 North Stafford country, and eventually having to be 

 given up near Eanton Abbey, after more than an hour's 

 badgering. A move was then made to Knightley, where a 

 fox was prettily found, but was unable or unwilling to 

 face the open, and after racing round the wood for ten 

 minutes, with some threadbare escapes, he scrambled into 

 a rabbit hole. Scott was very anxious to have him un- 

 earthed and devoured, but the Master decreed otherwise, 

 so on we went to Oulton Gorse, a pet one of Sir Thomas's 

 own planting, and just coming to perfection. A long 

 and careful draw, and at last a whimper. " Huiu, 

 huic," says the Master, consoled and happy. The cry 

 soon swells. He is off, and the pack are literally on his 

 back, flying for the canal — as usual, opinions differ as to 

 the means of crossing. A bridge lies right and left, and 

 the field is divided. The right hand men to-day get a 

 little the best of it ; although hounds are inclining to 

 the left, their way is the most direct. Norbury village is 

 raced past like a flash of lightning ; Blakemore Pool is 

 almost touched, and passed on the left. Then Knightley 

 Grange is whisked past, and for a moment there is a 

 hesitation in the flying sterns — a Godsend to hard-ridden 

 steeds. But ere the rear can close up we are away 

 again, over a road and some easier country for a few 

 fields. Then another road, and fences come thicker and 

 stiffer. Alas ! what is that scrimmage on the right — one 

 down and another " on top " as the Tyke would say. A 

 lady jumping on her husband. We did not like to intrude 

 among the endearing epithets of grief and remorse. No 

 bones seemed broken, nor, let us trust, was any other 

 evil consequence the result. Hounds still are huntmg 

 steadily on, and we must be with them. The country is 

 strange — it is North Staffordshire. Yonder little town 

 is Eccleshall, and here is Wincote Wood, a favourite 

 covert, lying high above the surrounding country ; and 

 here, too, there is an open earth to receive our good fox. 

 Fifty minutes, and a seven-mile point — good enough for 

 any ordinary mortal — and everyone satisfied and happy, 

 unless it be those who failed at leapfrog, or the lion 

 tamer, who, to my no great surprise, came an imperial 

 • crowner a few fields before the finish. 



