1 62 SKETCHES IN THE HUNTING FIEID. 



more of the "buck" about it than the rider likes — we 

 thread our way down a brambly slope, over a broken 

 hedge into a terribly sloshy ride, with mud up to the 

 horses' fetlocks, until coming to firmer ground we pause 

 to see what can be brought forth here. Yes ! half a 

 dozen hounds simultaneously give tongue, and we press 

 forward to the field beyond us, while down a side path 

 trots the huntsman with his hounds streaming to him. 



" Keep back, gentlemen, please ! " he cries, more 

 from force of habit than from necessity, for the couple 

 of dozen of us who are at this point press back into 

 the fence, lest by any chance we should head the fox. 

 " Together on ! together on ! " cries our friend, and 

 there — yes ! — surely that is the fox stealing down the 

 hedge-row ! Now is the time to press on hats, feel the 

 stirrups, and carefully run one's fingers through the 

 reins. The welcome cry of the hounds rings out, and the 

 little iron-grey rears up in his anxiety to be off. With 

 keen ears we listen for the " Forrard ! " " Forrard ! " 

 " Gone away ! " but to the general distress the voices of 

 the hounds gradually die out, and we are left lamenting. 

 A couple of cock pheasants fly over our heads as if in 

 mockery of their enemies' dismay, the rest of the field 

 ride up, to find that we have not got the start of them 

 as they evidently feared, and, with rather blank faces, 

 master and huntsman take council together as to the 

 next move. "The sun's against us," the Major admits, 

 as we canter off once again, but still it can hardly be 

 sufficiently hot to dry scent up entirely, and the day is 



