194 Cross Country with Horse and Hound 



like the old lady's eels, accustomed to being skinned. But 

 I have had several days with these hounds since that first 

 one, and somehow I doubt it. 



Let us hark back to our fox, that cunning, evasive thief 

 of the night. Any one can see him broken with little 

 feeling of compassion, knowing that the untimely death of 

 Mrs. Farmer's goslings has been avenged. As he hunts 

 the hare and the rabbit, he has no reason to complain if he 

 is hunted too. What is more, he is not a good sportsman. 

 He pounces upon his prey by stealth, while for him hounds 

 are kept back to give him a good start, and the music of 

 their cries, the shouts of the huntsmen, the clatter of the 

 galloping steeds, all leave him less and less excuse to say that 

 he has not been fairly dealt with. He usually gets away on 

 an even footing, and has about even chances of saving his 

 brush for another day. There are, indeed, always a few old 

 ringers in every hunt country that ^eem to welcome the 

 coming of the clamourous pack as if it were a game of 

 hide-and-seek or blindman's-buff. But most of them are 

 sly. When you see one sneaking along a fence after play- 

 ing a clever trick on the hounds, you have an eager desire to 

 run the rascal down. No, there is an indescribable some- 

 thing about the pursuit of a fox that fires the blood of a 

 hunting man as does that of no other game. Shooting 

 partridge, quail, or pheasants over a couple of well-trained 

 pointers is very keen sport, I allow. Wild-turkey shooting 

 in Michigan, going after wild ducks and geese in New 

 Brunswick, stalking deer in Maine or caribou and moose in 

 Nova Scotia, are most thrilling. But none of these animals 

 make you want to get at them so badly, or rather I might 



