394 LEAVES FROM A HUNTING DIARY 



masters, or changing hands, at the end of the season. Mr. Bowlby and 

 Mr. Arkwright have consented to hold office for another year, and as each 

 year of their reign adds to their popularity and success, we may anticipate 

 even a better season next year than we have had this ; for, considering the 

 frost, it has been a most successful one. 



Second in importance to the Mastership, in the welfare of a hunt, comes 

 the question of the staff; that here again no change is anticipated must be 

 a matter of sincere congratulation to us all. Bailey ! Where can you find 

 his equal ? Expert with hounds, familiar with the country; a good, bold 

 horseman, liked by everyone; he has no equal as a huntsman, we Essex 

 men think, in any plough or grass country in England. Jack Turner is a 

 famous first whip — quiet, steady, always there when wanted ; and Easterby 

 is equally reliable. 



Of Saturday ? What an expanse of country we drew without finding — 

 country, too, that is known to contain foxes — but where were they ? No 

 doubt, in the open or the hedgerows. Isn't it a curious fact, but the truth 

 of which experience fully confirms, that once find a fox, and you will soon, 

 in the course of a run, put up several more ? Nor have we to seek far 

 afield for the explanation. Nature has endowed the vulpine tribe with a 

 keen sense of hearing, in addition to their extraordinary gift of cunning, so 

 he thinks it about time to rouse himself from his kennel in hedgerov/ or 

 field when the sound of the chase sweeping onward in mad chorus, growing 

 nearer, clearer, deadlier than before, breaks in upon his watchful ears ; and 

 thus it happened upon Saturday, when we found at last — at 5 p.m. in 

 Parndon Hall— good omen ! the INIaster's covert, and a thorough sports- 

 man's home ! —for in the course of an hour's run foxes were seen in all 

 directions. 



A good hunting one— it would have been voted first-class with harriers 

 — and worked out very much as follows: Over the brook to Pinnacles, 

 thence to Parndon Woods and Latton, not entering the covert, but crossing 

 the common, and on at a good pace to Bays Grove, leaving the Gravel Pit 

 Wood on the right, eventually running us out of scent, and sending us 

 home in a very contented frame of mind from Passmore's Farm. 



Wednesday, April 3rd, we met at Birch Hall, and left off at Navestock. 

 This assertion at first sight appears strange, but is not if you come to 

 analyse it, for not a fox could be found in the whole country south of 

 Epping. Covert after covert was drawn blank, to say nothing of the 

 Forest, Birch Hall, Beech Hill Park, Barber's, Beachetts, and the day had 

 nearly drawn itself out before, sick at heart, weary in mind and body, we 

 found a fox in Ongar Park Woods. To get away from these big woods 

 with a travelling fox upon a good scenting day is more a question of luck 

 than management, for you never know which side or end he will break, 

 and past experience teaches us that hounds can slip through them much 

 faster than we can. 



Thus it happened upon this occasion we were all posted six deep in the 

 middle ride, when Jack's view holloa at the top end galvanised us into 

 action. The majority, headed by Mr. E. Ball, held straight on the main 

 ride in the direction of Toot Hill, and consequently never saw a yard of 

 the fierce scurry across to Northlands and Beachetts. The minority — 

 about thirty — followed Jack down the side ride, and reached the boundary 

 fence just in time to see half-a-dozen couple of hounds {sans huntsman) 

 break covert. The fence out of the wood was trappy and blind — one 

 riderless horse was flying past us (as we jumped in and out of the road) 

 followed by another — Mr. Bevan's, I believe — before we reached the 

 bottom or brook which stretches its sinuous course below Toot Hill. The 



