335 



THE POACHER. 



" Donald Caird can wire a maukin. 

 Kens the wiles o' dun deer stalken. 

 Leisters kippers, maks a shift 

 To shoot the muir fowl in a drift ; 

 Water-bailiffs, watchers, keepers. 

 He can wake while ye are sleepers ; 

 Nor for bounty or reward. 

 Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird." 



It was a dull evening in the beginning of December, now many 

 years since, that I had to lead a "beaten horse" home for about 

 twelve miles, after one of the best runs, perhaps, ever known with 

 our hounds. I recollect not only that day, but that season well. 

 We had not a day's frost to stop the hunting until long after 

 Christmas. The scent had lain breast high, the hounds had been 

 running like wildfire, and the men going like mad up to this -, and 

 those whose studs were short, and yet who liked to see as much of 

 the fun as possible, began to wish for a little frost to give our nags 

 a fortnight's rest. This was a peculiar season. In every hunt 

 there are certain crack meets — coverts which are sure finds j and 

 the man who can only hunt twice a week fixes his days according 

 to the advertisement in the county paper, and saves his horses for 

 those fixtures where he can make sure of a nm. But this year the 

 foxes appeared to be scattered all over the country. They kept 

 turning up in all sorts of unaccountable places. Hedge-rows, 

 turnip-fields, belts of plantations which we never thought of draw- 

 ing, all seemed to hold a flying fox ; and some of our best runs 

 this year were from coverts to which, in ordinary seasons, no man 

 (except the most inveterate sportsmen who have plenty of horses 



