126 SKETCHES IN THE HUNTING FIELD. 



" How do you like the mare ? " asks my host's son, 

 and before I have time to frame a sentence, a movement 

 in front shows that something is up. Tlie hounds have 

 hit it off again, and through the gateway opposite to 

 which we have just arrived we all stream ; for the stone 

 wall here is too high and forbidding even for the careless 

 ones. 



What is the matter with the mare ? She certainly 

 goes very lame indeed on her near fore-leg — a stone, no 

 doubt, out of that lane ; unlucky enough at such a 

 moment, but it is fortunate at least that I happened to 

 bring to-day a stout, serviceable, hunting-crop with an 

 iron handle, instead of the more smart and very much 

 less useful silver one I sometimes carry. 



The mare knows why I have left my saddle, and holds 

 up the lame foot, from which I speedily detach the small 

 rock she was carrying, and though she stands quietly 

 enough, it is necessary to turn her about to get a little 

 advantage in the ground before I am again in my seat. 



There is a covert ahead, round the left of which the' 

 last of my detachment is just disappearing, and I pause 

 for a moment to consider. The field seemed to be going 

 away to the right, and if I go too I shall in all probability 

 get ahead of my late companions, so I set the mare going 

 and gallop along the fence, intending to skirt the" covert 

 to join in ; but here, at any rate, it is plain why the 

 knowing ones went the other way. An impenetrable 

 fence with a ditch towards me most effectually bars the 

 way, and so to the right again I turn, and trot along to 



