164- SKETCHES IN THE HUNTING FIELD. 



Marigold has hit off a hot scent, the burst of music 

 rom the pack leaves little doubt about it, and the first 

 whip's " Gone away ! " with that wild and jubilant 

 scream which is not to be put down on paper, leaves 

 none at all. There he goes, out of the ditch, through 

 the fence, and up the slight ascent on the other side, 

 and as the last hounds leap out of the covert we merrily 

 start across the grass. With what a firm and blithe- 

 some stride the little iron-grey lifts himself over the 

 grass, and how cleverly he gathers himself up, after just 

 a hint from the reins, for the fence before us — a set of 

 lowish rails with a hedge just rising above them. 



Unnecessary jumping is, of course, at all times to be 

 condemned and avoided, and there is an open gate 

 twenty yards to the left ; but it would be too cruel to 

 baulk the eager horse's desire, and without perceptible 

 effort he bounds over, landing in a wet plough, through 

 which he would go at racing pace were he not steadied. 

 The first fence has stopped no one, and, indeed, hardly 

 could have done so, seeing that there was the open gate 

 for choice. In a compact body the hunt crosses the 

 plough, and in the pack there is not a straggler. A 

 thin fence into the meadow beyond hardly causes the 

 horses to rise, and we can form a shrewd notion of the 

 sensations experienced by the rhymer who sang with 

 such enthusiastic delight of the joys of 



"A quick thiity minutes from Banksborough Gorse." 



Even so far, however, some of the field have disap- 

 peared, notably the two light weights on weedy 



