CAPE FOXHOUNDS 

 hearted Masters all over England. 

 The fatal "dog-sickness" of South 

 Africa plays such havoc in the course 

 of a season as to necessitate a fresh 

 draft from home every year. Shipping 

 charges are very high, and the funds 

 of the hunt are per contra very low, 

 so it is not surprising that our pack 

 is a somewhat mixed one. But, 

 although "a rum 'tin to look at," it 

 is a "good 'un to go," and every 

 hound in it, this fine hunting morning, 

 looks hard and fit for anything. 



At their head rides our Master, as 

 fine a specimen of the British soldier- 

 sportsman as you would meet in a 

 day's march. (Poor Turner ! he 

 gave up the hounds not long after 

 the day I am here describing, and 

 he now lies buried on the banks of 

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