A MIXED MARCH. lOo 



once but did not leave the latter readily. A fox had gone on, 

 and the natural assumption was in favour of his being the 

 hunted one. But pace had disappeared : and the remaining 

 hour of the run was pretty hunting, but by Gaddesby Spinney 

 along the brookside to Queniborongh Village on the outskirts 

 of which they were forced to confess themselves beaten. 



A MIXED MARCH. 



ITS first week was illustrative of March in the completest 

 manner its mildest and its wildest phases alike represented. 

 At its best the week has been perfect for hunting ; at its worst 

 it has been admirable for farming and who shall grudge the 

 farmers all they want? Certainly not foxhunters. Already 

 they have dust almost as much as they can need ; already the 

 fallows are fit for breaking ; and already the ridges of turf will 

 bear a cart wheel without suffering. The gateways have in 

 many instances arrived at their summer rugged ness ; the 

 ground rattles where its surface is bare, though the furrows 

 tread deep and wet, and sheltered grass grasps the hoof with 

 distressing tenacity. 



Friday, March 2. The Quorn at Lowesby Hall the most 

 picturesque of lawn-meets, and, as it happened, the most superb 

 of hunting days. We think a great deal more of such a day in 

 this final month than we ever did in November, or in the hey- 

 day of the season. One of the last meals of a condemned man, 

 one of the final holidays of grandeur and senility at Cannes 

 are these inapt comparisons ? We are never so inordinately 

 fond of foxhunting as in its last weeks (gauge the fact by 

 number !), when foxhunting is on the flicker, brighter than ever 

 now and then, but struggling hard to live. A " perfect hunting 

 day" may carry a varied definition. It defined itself on Friday 

 cold, clear, and quiet the wind nor'-easterly, sun dormant, and 

 the whole to play upon ground improved by ten days' warmth 

 and one shower. In fact, if ever there could, and should, be a 



