A ROUGH HOUR WITH THE PYTCHLEY 41 



cold and bright, and all nature seemed turning to winter 

 of the baser sort. There are no minutes so contemplative 

 as those during which the razor is wandering over the hill 

 and dale of an unbearded face, gliding in and out of 

 the ridge and furrow of maturity's wrinkles, or sweeping 

 smoothly over the lawnlike expanse of youth's sleek, un- 

 troubled cheek, rounding the angles and scraping the 

 very curbstones of leaner physiognomy, or changing its 

 legs deftly to clear the ruts cut by thorn or briar during 

 the week past. The mind then naturally betakes itself 

 to day-dreams, and the dream of this morning was of 

 imminent idleness, of a useless and expensive stud, and 

 of what on earth we were to do with ourselves if frost 

 set in. 



Black clouds floated over the Meet, the air was warmer 

 (or was it the Newnham cherry-brandy that accounted for 

 temperature improved ?) and snow was now our forecast. 

 The Pytchley moved off very punctually — leaving behind 

 them, alas, more than one tardy comer to bewail another 

 run missed. For hounds found their fox readily in the 

 same round spinney beneath Staverton Wood that gave 

 them their great run of three years ago. Now they 

 brought ofif a very sterling hunt with a wide-ranging fox. 

 On a lustier scent to-day's also should have been a great 

 run. As it was, we were kept cantering and galloping for 

 the best part of an hour and ten minutes — a measure of 

 enjoyment far above our recent portion, believe me. 



Staverton Wood has a contour not unlike one of the 

 lions of Trafalgar Square. Fox and hounds, as generally 

 happens here, ran among the fir-trees along its backbone, 

 then mounted and traversed its head before plunging 

 downward on to the level beneath. (A single hound, 

 meanwhile, by herself was engaged in coursing and killing 

 a second fox in the spinney above mentioned !) The pack 

 had reached the valley before we could ride over the head, 

 to scramble our way out through the entangling crest of 

 spruce and thorn ; and they were already to be seen run- 

 ning hard to Staverton village. The most opportune 

 road put us all right in five minutes — and then they 

 stopped running ! Once more (as is an everyday occur- 



