64 SPORTING REMINISCENCES 



is my fear, I get frightened and niuddled if I 

 cannot get by myself, or with a few people, so 

 my perfect hunts in my own mind are those when 

 only a few have been my way. 



The push to your hat — no one could start 

 without that — the taking up of reins, the pricked- 

 ear excitement of the good hunter you ride, the 

 hounds slipping out of cover and the short sharp 

 twang of gone away — is there anything like it on 

 earth as one gallops up the first field with one's 

 finger groping in the lucky bag of hunting ? 



Which way will he turn ? Will we do right or 

 wrong? Is scent, the ever-mysterious, good or 

 bad? 



Flinging themselves at it, settling down and 

 away, as well stand on a hill and be safe as hope 

 to see it to-day, or a cock-tail, or after a burst 

 heads up, an anxious wait, or again another check, 

 this is to be no burst but slow hunting. And this 

 again who knows ? How often have we been held 

 hard and gone on and done grievous wrong by 

 pressing hounds, for three or four miles, and then 

 gone quietly believing that all we can do is to 

 jump away from the crowd and watch the hounds 

 puzzle it out. And then, what's happening — 

 the sudden bobbing of the top hats who have 

 kept close, hounds running hke pigeons three 

 fields away and the whole of the crowd between 

 us and them ? Another hunt lost unless we are 

 lucky. Pray now for the checks — for the chancy 



