FOX-HUNTING. 



scans the sky line, where looms out an obstacle, 

 the most formidable yet encountered — a strong 

 staken-bound fence leaning towards him, which he 

 instinctively knows to be garnished on the other 

 side with a very wide ditch, whether or not further 

 provided with an ox-rail beyond that, he cannot 

 tell. What he sees is enough — considering the 

 ground he has just traversed, and that he must go 

 at the fence uphill — to make him wish himself safe 

 over. However, with a sense of relief, he sees a 

 gleam of daylight in it, which he at first half hopes 

 is a gap, but which turns out to be a good stiff bit 

 of timber nailed between two ash trees. It is 

 strong and high, but lower than the fence ; the 

 "take off" is good, and there is apparently no 

 width of ditch beyond. So, thanking his stars or 

 favourite saint that " timber " is his horse's special 

 accomplishment, he "goes for it." It don't improve 

 on acquaintance. Now is the time for hands. 

 Often — oh, how often ! — have hands saved the 

 head or the neck ! and fortunately his are faultless. 



