The Sport of Our (^Ancestors 



and pasture covering a succession of small valleys, each 

 with its own brook that in some cases is best crossed by 

 the bridge. The fences are not too well cut and laid, and 

 the rider has to pick his places. About three miles to the 

 left front is a long, straggling, boggy woodland of about 

 three hundred acres, usually full of Foxes. A gate or two, 

 sundry pieces of low timber, and an easy place at each 

 bottom keep you on terms with your Hounds until you 

 breast the rising ground for the third time. On the top of 

 the ridge there is a cart track, intersecting the line of the Fox. 

 On this track stands a labourer, apparently the only in- 

 habitant of the district. What is he doing there ? He 

 gesticulates as if he had seen the Fox, and you pray that the 

 Fox has not seen him. But of course he has, and has turned 

 short to the right, under the fence, down the cart track 

 or horse road, as they call it in the Midlands. The Hounds 

 have their blood up, and the body are through and over 

 the fence and half-way across the next field before they 

 own their mistake. But two couple make a dive to the right 

 under the hedge, and throw their tongues. You holloa 

 to the leading Hounds, who wheel to the right and conform 

 to the change of direction, though as yet they have no scent. 

 The Fox has re-made his point under the second hedge to 

 the front, and, as the body of the pack on your left flank 

 cross his line, they put down their sterns and slip up the 

 hedge side like lightning, stealing an unhandsome march 

 on the steady two couple who have saved the situation. 

 You open the gate and let these faithful ones into the field,. 



48 



