72 THE BEST OF THE FUN 



regarded by fox-hunters, as it is by lamb-breeders, as a 

 distinct breach of privilege. 



Our horses were far from requiring a rest. In spite 

 of deep ground for the bulk of the winter, we have 

 scarcely tired a horse this season — in the Weedon district. 

 Right and left of us, there have been a run or two here, 

 a run or two there, but they have not come our way, 

 since November. 



Else might there be something refreshing, exhilarat- 

 ing, and deliciously gratifying in the summons to work 

 after the lapse of days. We look forward, of course, 

 with a zest that no other attraction could supply to to- 

 morrow with the North Warwickshire, to Wednesday 

 with the Pytchley. But is there not in the outlook a 

 tinge of sadness, that belongs to so much on earth when 

 once we are out of our teens, or our twenties (as may 

 pertain to the cruel accident of sex) ? Too late, too late, 

 is a cry that has perhaps embodied more disappointment, 

 conveyed more bitterness, and even contained more con- 

 densed agony than any protest by human voice. But 

 moralising or moan, chagrin or regret, what have we to 

 do with you to-night — with two good horses awaiting 

 the morrow, and the morrow — a travelling hack to the 

 stable, and a clean bill of health just issued by trusty 

 groom — the thermometer at forty degrees, and the sky 

 serene ? We have dined ; we are sound ; and, God be 

 thanked, we shall be dancing the green to the best of all 

 tunes before we're a dozen hours older. 



Tuesday Morning. — And how is the outlook now ? 

 A suspicion of grey frost, a determined outburst of sun- 

 shine. Not the best possible omens of sport, you will 

 say. Never mind, bright and refreshing, and wholesome, 

 conditions wherein to be abroad, bound for the covert- 

 side once more, whether astride the galloper, or snugly 

 packed abaft the trotter. The former will put your liver 

 of idleness to rights before you reach hounds ; the latter 

 will set your teeth chattering till in thought you are back 

 in the dentist's chair — a perch that, I am led to believe, 

 has fox-hunters for occupants during a frost almost as 

 freely as has the theatre stall, or the haircutter's mystic 



