A SAD FATALITY 



?o.s 



Monday came round, bringing us altogether at Bobbingworth windmill, 

 and the sad event of last Friday : " It happened with Mr. Barclay's 

 Harriers," was mentioned with bated breath. It seemed to cast a cloud 

 over everyone, as dull and heavy as the grey sky above, while a penetrating 

 east wind, pregnant with coming snow, had a further depressing effect, 

 which not even the soul-stirring run that was so shortly to be enacted 

 could dispel. " Truly, in the midst of life we are in death." 



Five-ancl-forty minutes ! how nuich that makes hfe 

 enjoyable may be condensed into that short period of time. 

 What trouble — what expense — will one undergo to have the 

 chance of spendinq- those brief moments alongside a good 

 pack of hounds ! Tell me if you know a prettier covert for 



Bobbingworth Wood 



a find than Bobbingworth Wood, as it stands out clear and 

 distinct against the winter sky : crowning the summit of a 

 gende hill, encircled by old pastures, which to the west slope 

 gradually down to the little Cripsey brook. Tell me if you 

 know a happier, though non-hunting man, than Mr. Millbank, 

 whose covert it is, as he is the first to catch sight of the old 

 dog-fox going away before hounds were scarce cheered in. 

 Answer me ! where would you have been if he hadn't given 

 us honest rails instead of wire ?— as your horse Hung the 



