244 FOX-HOUND, FOREST, AND PRAIRIE. 



and Somerset might fairly stamp you as a bird of ill-omen), so 

 your ride is a hot twelve miles before you reach the meet -just 

 in time to drop into the stream of horsemen and vehicles now 

 pouring off down the lane after the moving pack. Mr. Joyce's 

 figure is prominent to all who will see it as they should do as 

 he stands in the roadway with his Deer Damage bag out- 

 stretched. Mr. Russell, a few hundred yards further on, is 

 collecting shillings for some similar object. It is worth more 

 than a shilling to see him any morning ; so, very few men are 

 likely to grudge the contribution. The lane is only just wide 

 enough for a waggonette, of which there are plenty, and not 

 nearly wide enough for kickers, of which there are many more. 

 Every other horse seems to be a colt just bridled ; and, as the 

 lane is, westcountry-fashion, burrowed out from the adjoining 

 level, the high banks effectually bar the timid stranger's escape. 

 Soon, happily, an open gateway shows a grass field, wherein the 

 bulk of the cavalcade proceed at once to bivouac. It is only a 

 mile from the covert, 'tis true : and of that covert they can see 

 nothing ! But, hush ! we are not telling of a fox-hunting 

 scene on a cold winter's morn in the Midlands. They manage 

 these things better on a sunny day's staghunting in the West 

 and there are sweet spirits and kindly hands in those waggon- 

 ettes that will yet render grateful help to the weaiy sportsman, 

 and raise him to bear the heat and burden of the day. 



On either side of a narrow valley, through which rattles one 

 of the many moorland streamlets, is Molland Wood. The pack 

 are stabled close at hand ; but the first half-hour's tufting (the 

 most critical time of all, as testing the success of the harbourer's 

 work) passes in silence. So does another hour, when hope, 

 almost ebbed out, found new life in the sound of an opening 

 hound only to be roughly extinguished when, five minutes 

 later, a hind breaks through a delighted, screaming, crowd of 

 footpeople on the opposite hill. Molland Wood can furnish 

 nothing more, and at two o'clock a move is made to another 

 wooded valley, Gratton by name. A stag of fabulous size and 

 age is said to be harboured here ; and fervent prayers are 



