Frost — Petton and ShaivUivy. 13 



Well, I am not getting to work. Stanwardine Gorse was 

 the order of the day, and thither the large cavalcade 

 went. Foxes, of course, were on the move in this 

 favourite convert, but for twenty minutes the pent-up 

 energies of the field had to endure a cub-hunt, which did 

 nothing to relieve their feelings. At last away he went, 

 and crash went the charge of cavalry in the rear 

 of the pack. Unaccustomed, however, to the din of 

 such a multitude, it took scarcely ten minutes for this 

 little fox to get back home again, and not all Lockey's 

 endeavours could make him leave it again. Another 

 half -hour was cut to wasce, and then a move was made to 

 another of the pretty little coverts that Mr. Sparling so 

 assiduously preserves for the honour of Shropshire. This 

 time it really looked like business, for hounds dashed 

 away, with a wicked w^ill, for four fields — indeed, watches 

 made it seven minutes— and then they seemed to falter, 

 and scent died away instantly. This sort of intermittent 

 fun was destined to put its black mark on the day, and 

 although one of the many foxes that was disturbed fell a 

 victim, the real doings may be written down as niL No ! 

 not quite, for Mr. Sparling's table and sideboard groaned 

 with luncheon, to which he implored (not altogether in 

 vain) his friends to partake of. An evening draw at 

 Wettermere, EUesmere way, proved unavailing. 



Meanwhile the despised IShawbury was the scene 

 of better fun. Here a very diminutive ' field, by 

 comparison, met Mr. Lonsdale, and faces grew longer 

 still when Thatcher did not turn up. His fall on the 

 previous day having turned out more serious than 

 expected, so Booker, the first whip, had to take the hora, 

 and away we trotted to Poynton I'^prings. A good fox is 

 generally at home here, and to-day was no exception. 

 A quick eye viewed him across a ride, and he was off 

 like a shot on the Shawbury side, and then bearing to 

 the left, did not touch Shawbury Heath, but kept on 

 parallel with the main road over a stiff line, and at a 

 good pace, till we found ourselves close to Sunderton 

 Farmhouse. Here, for the first time, hounds put down 

 their noses on the plough, and Booker lifted them to a 

 holloa near the keeper's house, which the hounds 

 declared to be a delusion. Thus ended a pretty little 



