A VERY TAME STAG HUNT 



NTIL I took up my 

 abode at World End 

 (the " one lioss " village 

 appears on the parish 

 map under quite a 

 different name) my ex- 

 perience of staghunting 

 had been confined to the 

 chase of the wild red 

 deer of Exmoor, and I 

 am bound to confess 

 that the grand sport 

 shown by the bell -voiced, dappled beauties of the Devon 

 and Somerset packs is second only to the premier of all 

 British field-sports, foxhunting. My initiation into the 

 mysteries of tame " stagging " was with a certain so- 

 called farmer's pack, the kennels of which stand well 

 within fifty miles of London ; my mount " Shanks' 

 mare," and my companion, a jovial member of the Stock 

 Exchange, who six days in the week vegetates in this 

 quiet country village, and with Mica wber -like patience 

 and fortitude waits for something to turn up, in the 

 shape of a " boom " in " Kaffirs." 



" We'll see the stag uncarted and hounds ' laid on ' 



and then lunch at the George," said I to Barker, as we 



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