112 THE NORTH STAFFORDSHIRE HOUNDS. 



minules to liCcir the welcome chorus once more taken up, and swelling in the 

 most deliglitful crescendo. Is he going to Yarlet? Yes. No. Away to 

 the left seems to be his aim, and once more we stream gaily along to the 

 Black Plantation, which in its stickiness and heaviness causes us to lament that 

 foxes love a wood so dearly. We are too close on him for much time to be 

 allowed for his highness to take a breathing space ; in fact, we just rattle through 

 the wood, and meet friends and compatriots in the lane. Now tlie hounds go 

 right merrily, and we prepare ourselves for something good, for they are point- 

 ing for Darlaston. Now the old steeplechase ground is passed with scarcely a 

 thought, for have we not another and more lively interest in riding ourselves than in 

 seeing others ride ? The quiet old road from Eccleshall to Stone is now disturbed 

 with the unusual ' noise and fluster ; ' but we do not trouble it long, as the 

 hounds have crossed and are skimming bravely along. Oh dear ! to those who 

 know not the locality, with what a shock does the railway embankment break 

 upon their dreams of bliss ! George Stephenson, thy worthy name is not blessed ! 

 We look at each other till Dickins, the huntsman, shows us that even railways 

 may be crossed. Many of us feel that ' this is the time for disappearing,' though 

 we do not echo the resolve ' to take a header down below,' particularly as a boy 

 appears on each side of the line, and the happy ones who have not crossed call 

 out to the hapless ones who are halfway over that a train is coming. A queer 

 side of human nature is turned towards the world in this sport. Here we tumble 

 down the bank and scramble up the other side post haste, when, had we waited 

 ten minutes, a gate would have been found. (But ten minutes, and hounds going 

 sharp !) Why, after a few fields here we are at Swynnerton, running Avildly on 

 for Tittensor. On to the Common ; but here our wary one, with an evident desire 

 to save his own life, confides the secret to a friend, who kindly undertakes to 

 cany out the little plan. At least, that is what we suppose; but who shall 

 know the mind of a fox? At one moment the hounds have him under their 

 very eyes ; another the grapes of Tantalus have once more receded, and who 

 can tell how far? If some scientific man would tell us how foxes suddenly 

 become invisible, what a boon would he confer on mankind! However, our 

 foe, new or old, danced us round Swynnerton, pretending first he was off in this 

 direction, then in that, till at last, after a ring round, we once more find ourselves 

 on the Common. Horses now begin to show signs of fatigue, and as the Trentham 

 road is the right highway for most of us, we leave the hounds to decide the 

 combat to their own satisfaction (?), and start off on our ride home. 



"M. M." 



Dickins's brief note of this day's sport in his diary 

 reads as follows : — 



"Met at Norton Bridge Station. Found in Shallowford Gorse. Ran up 

 round Yarlet Hill, and away to Swynnerton, on to Tittensor Common, to the 

 left to Stretter (?) Pits, and round Swynnerton and the Pilsons to Tittensor a 

 second time ; then on to Trentham Wood, to ground in main earths." 



The present writer does not know what the mystic 

 initials " M. M. " stand for, but no one can doubt that 

 the writer of the above excellent sporting sketch, and 

 several of the others printed in this volume, belongs to 



