254 



LEAVES FROM A HUNTING DIARY 



minutes over a most delightfully sporting country, up hill and down dale, 

 all grass, every yard of it, and no wire to stop you, considerately running 

 through the grounds of the house I was staying in before Jack Stratton 

 finally handled him. 



I must confess, however, that I think that old Bailey would have 

 brushed him very much sooner. Jack Stratton leaves a good deal to his 

 hounds — a good deal more, in fact, than Joe Moss, the huntsman to a 

 neighbouring pack — Lord Portman's ; who, report has it, can kill a fox 

 when he likes, and will mop up three to Stratton's one. A nice spurt in 

 the middle of the day, winding up with two hours over the vale, taking in 

 part of Lord Portman's country, brought a very enjoyable day to a close. 



On Friday, the 6th, the Essex had another good day, followed by a 

 Saturday at Good Easter, that has left something to be remembered and 





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'//y/^W 





Good Easter 



talked about for many a long day by those who were fortunate enough to 

 be out ; for, as General Sir Evelyn Wood remarked to me on Monday last, 

 it was perfect bliss while it lasted, and, with a six-mile point in thirty-seven 

 minutes, I quite believe him just as much as I accept, without any demur, 

 the statement of a very thrusting welter that, on a young horse, the pace 

 was just a leetle too ultra for him. The country rode heavy after the 

 recent rains, and every field claimed some sobbing steed. Sir Evelyn, 

 however, saw every yard of the run, and Mr. Charles Green, I am told, 

 was one of the very select few who struggled to the end, and who has his 

 own theory of what became of that fox — eaten, he was not. 



Now it is a remarkable thing once more illustrating the vagaries of 

 scent that, while the Essex hounds could run like distraction over their 

 Roothing country, Mr. Quare's Harriers could do next to nothing on the 



