WITH THE NORTH COTSWOLD HOUNDS 123 



feet above sea-level, to judge by the strength of the 

 gale that was blowing, we had a glorious view of 

 a far-stretching panorama of country in the vale 

 beneath. Though the country is not a good scenting 

 one, except when there is a bite of east in the wind, 

 the bitches quickly roused their fox in the larch 

 plantations on the hill slopes, their deep sonorous 

 music lending enchantment to a scene of diversified 

 loveliness. A second or two later, old Dan Reid 

 was heard piping a fox away on a silver whistle, 

 for there were no confusing halloas. Up came the 

 master, flicking over the stone wall out of covert, 

 and quick as lightning inspired hounds and followers 

 with the urgency of the matter. Keeping their 

 fox travelling up wind, they worked him down into 

 the vale and a good riding country, taking a point 

 for the Croome country on the opposite hill-side. 

 It was a ride full of new experiences, to say nothing 

 of some anxiety, giving us, alas, but a distant view 

 of the master and his smart bitches flying over the 

 stone walls which surround the seventy-acre pastures. 

 A rain-cloud blotted out the view at the finish, en- 

 veloping the hillside in a dense wall of fog, robbing 

 the pack at a critical moment of well-earned blood. 



Talking of runs brings up a wealth of reminiscences, 

 for it is a district in which the keenest interest is 

 taken in the doings of hounds by the non-hunting 

 fraternity, who are sportsmen to the very core. On 

 a memorable occasion, after finding a good fox near 

 Wyatt's Spinney, the bitches in the full enjoyment 

 of a burning scent drove him along over the stone- 

 wall country at such a pace that he was forced to 

 fly up wind. It was a regular Belvoir burst of 

 twenty minutes, a fox going straight for his life, 

 losing no time over the walls, and running up the 

 middle of each field in a desperate effort to gain 



