FOX-HUNTING 



played by those iron heels ; the time, as it does 

 in the Croats' March, breaking now and then, 

 plunging, jingling, struggHng through heavy ground, 

 bursting for a moment into a jubilant canter, as 

 it reaches a sound spot, . . . 



* But that time does not last long. The hounds 

 feather a moment round Malepartus, puzzled by 

 the windings of Reinecke's footsteps. Look at 

 Virginal, five yards ahead of the rest, as her stern 

 flourishes, and her pace quickens. Hark to Vir- 

 ginal ! as after one whimper, she bursts out 

 full-mouthed, and the rest dash up and away in 

 chorus, madder than ever, and we after them up 

 the ride. Listen to the hoof-tune now. The com- 

 mon time is changed to triple ; and the heavy steady 

 thud — thud — thud — tells one even blindfold that we 

 are going. . . . 



* Going, and ** going to go." For a mile of ride 

 have I galloped tangled among men and horses, 

 and cheered by occasional glimpses of the white- 

 spotted backs in front ; and every minute the pace 

 quickens. Now the hounds swing off the ride, and 

 through the fir trees ; and now it shall be seen 

 who can ride the winter-garden. 



*I make no comparisons. I feel due respect for 

 **the counties." I have tasted of old, though 

 sparingly, the joys of grass ; but this I do say, as 

 said the gentlemen of the New Forest fifty years 

 ago, in the days of its glory, when the forest and 



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