58 HUNTING AND SPORTING NOTES. 



that had to be got into and out of, we found the hounds 

 in Birchall Moss, but pushing their fox out, he pointed 

 as if for Dodington Park ; and, in fact, we ran a goodish 

 distance in that direction Then, turning to tne left, 

 leaving Broomlands Hall to the right, our fox was now 

 viewed not only by the field, but by the hounds as well. 

 He, however, contrived for a time to elude his blood- 

 thirsty followers just outside Birchali Moss, by hiding 

 behind a door of the out-premises attached to a cottage. 

 "An amateur whip young man" thought he would have 

 a look round the cottage premises, and soon discovered 

 Eeynard in his new quarters. Poking him out, he ran 

 into Birchali Moss, where he died like a good fox 

 should do. 



" It was certainly half past three, perhaps a little later, 

 when we found, and we killed our fox about five o'clock. 



"The first part of this run was certainly fast enough to 

 please the hardest rider, but from the time we crossed 

 the Weaver, and until the end, not so fast, but still it 

 was a good hunting run." 



Of the Shropshire, Tuesday, what can I say ? It is 

 smumed up in the word " disappointment." No vestige 

 of a fox about Eyton-in-the-Wildmoors, while Rowton 

 Gorse held one that actually succeeded in dodging the 

 hounds for an hour and twenty minutes, without ever 

 leaving his covei't, and keeping the field all this time in 

 shivei'ing expectancy of a gallop that never came. It 

 was quite a relief to hear, " Whoo hoop," and turn 

 homewards. 



Thursday, at Pitcliford Hall, must also be classed 

 among the unfortunate days that have been too plentiful 

 this season. The big wood held a fox that unfortunately 

 got hung up in some wire netting, the curse of foxes, 

 and was nailed by a single hound before he could 

 extricate himself. Go! ding Coppice held a brace, and 

 hounds got away on good terms with the wrong one that 

 popped into a drain close to the hall, after a few fields' 

 scurry. Eaton Mascott was blank. And then, Condover 

 Park became the order of the day — a certain find, it 

 was broadly whispered. When there, a miserable 

 keeper's foundling, hardly worthy of the name of a fox, 

 engaged the attention of the pack for a minute or so in 

 a hollow covert close to the keeper's house, but before 

 the poor fellow could reach his home in the pheasantry, 



