126 THE NORTH STAFFORDSHIRE HOUNDS. 



very satisfactory day's sport. This is the fourth time Shallowford has produced 

 a fox akeady this season, and each time there has been a good run. 



" Pink." 



From the Field, February 2nd, 1884 : 



" January 25th. Sugnall. — Friday, general superstition says, is a bad day 

 to begin anything ; but, fortunately, this belief did not spread so far as to mar 

 the attendance of many sporting characters at Sugnall last Friday. Promptly 

 at eleven Dickins and his pack arrive, and, after a short stay, proceed to draw 

 the coverts adjoining the old hall. What a pretty sight we have from these 

 hills ! Copmere Pool, shining like silver, curiously interwoven with deep shades 

 of blue ; the wood bright with touches of scarlet ; and all around the animated 

 picture of horsemen. But there's a prettier sight yet, when we see an old 

 hound throw up its head and emit joyful sounds, and soon the merry chorus is 

 taken up. Then Boxall's scream is heard, and our scene becomes very animated, 

 as there is a small and narrow lane to pass, and our innate greediness and wish 

 to be first seems strongly developed. However, another scream in the opposite 

 direction causes a diversion for a minute or two, and when we do get thi'ough 

 and are fairly off we find the hounds some little way ahead. ' Three foxes 

 astir!' is the general exclamation, and we feel happy that we are with the 

 hounds and No. 1, instead of halloaing wildly at the far end of the covert with 

 either No. 2 or 3. But there is not much time to think, for just when we have 

 passed Croxton Windmill and are settling nicely down to work, the hounds go 

 straight to a little pit ; we pull up our panting horses, and find No. 1 has gone 

 to ground. Of course there is a universal groan ; then a hope we may find the 

 others. So we make our way back to Sugnall ; but the wary ones have 

 escaped, and a succession of misfortunes assail us. At one wood workmen 

 have been busy, and we go on, our hopes dying away and our spirits getting 

 lower, as one wood after another proves empty. At last we pass Hillcot, and 

 make towards Norton Bridge. The clouds are gathering fast, the sun disappears, 

 an icy wind blows. We search for coats, and talk about the ride home. But 

 there's no escaping that storm, so we settle to grimly enjoy it together, and jog 

 on to Shallowford to the usual gate, where we all stand in anxious expectation. 

 But what a horrible thing ! After a pause we see Dickins emerging from the 

 bottom of the wood. We all go down with very sinking hearts. Why, it can't 

 be blank! Down comes the rain with pitiless, blinding force, and we feel 

 utterly disheartened (the woe depicted on one man's face on finding this 

 covert blank is indescribable). But Dickins hasn't done yet ; he is carefully 

 drawing back, determined that no fox shall escape him, and, oh, joyful sight ! a 

 little quiet animal peeps out and bobs back again. Out again, though, and we 

 wait in breathless expectation till he is well ahead, and then express our 

 delight ; but there is no need for that, for the hounds are close on him. The 

 horn is going right merrily, and we start well ; but a perfect deluge of half- 

 frozen stuff, neither rain nor snow, beats on our faces, and for a minute or two 

 neither man, horse, nor hound can see anything. This gives the fox a cruel 

 advantage, and he makes the best of it, for when the storm clears off, we find 

 we are hunting very slowly. Still the hounds keep on, steadily fighting against 

 cold plough and other disadvantages ; now running, then working on slowly, till 

 at last, over one long ploughed field, it seems as if they must give up. But 

 here Dickins, with a clever cast, puts them on under a hedgerow. They pick it 

 up, and, with meny music, gallop on. Now the pace begins. They rattle him 



