A DART FROM WIXWICK WARREN 77 



Tuesday, March ist, was the occasion of our first 9.30 

 muster. Whether the experiment was successful as to 

 keeping down numbers must be for others to judge. As 

 a matter of fact, the field of the morning did not exceed 

 250. But then it must be borne in mind that other 

 hounds were out — this being a Shrove Tuesday meet in 

 Heu of Wednesday. It is open to doubt if any further 

 reduction is likely to be brought about by a less stringent 

 measure than recurring to John Peel's hour of meeting. 

 The modern Nimrod would hardly be brought to fold his 

 cravat or buckle his leathern garters by candlelight. He 

 would withdraw his subscription, and go elsewhere — or, 

 maybe, take to golf. 



He turned up in fair force, though, on Tuesday at Crick 

 — having gone to bed specially early overnight, and looking 

 all the better for it. A long and varied day he had before 

 him : a trying day, a cold day, but withal a very pleasur- 

 able day, according to my estimate and according to 

 the standard of this insufficient season. Sleet and snow 

 blinded him as he rode or drove to covert, after his scanty, 

 premature breakfast : and the same persecuting elements 

 worried him the livelong day, pinching him at the covert- 

 side, and chilling him during the periods of inaction that 

 constitute so considerable a section of every day's hunting. 

 On the other hand he was loosed off no less than four 

 times upon a flying ride — the fourth occasion developing 

 into a very merry, genial gallop, and sending him home 

 warmed to the bone. 



It was bleak and cold, and nigh upon three o'clock 

 of the afternoon, that we stood upon the hill of Winwick 

 Warren — wondering vaguely at the persevering industry of 

 the earth stopper, who to all appearance had laid a flat 

 stone to the mouth of every aperture on this honeycombed 

 height. A shivering throng we were — our complexions 

 illustrating every shade of aesthetic uncomeliness. " Yaick- 

 aick-aick ! " Don't you know it? It has power to set 

 my heart going more deftly than any signal save Tom 

 Firr's " Yurry-Yurry-Yurry " of similar occasion. " The 

 same fox we took from Purser's Hill, my lord," cries John, 

 as he cheers hounds to the line and we crowd up to the 



