1871—72.] WET LEICESTERSHIRE. 59 



The villagers have scented fox, and Reynard has scented them, 

 and turned short back from his point for Bunney Park. A 

 single hound rings his conviction loudly on the back line, and 

 supplies the want of a holloa, as the double throws them on to 

 their haunches. A cast back sets them busy again — but finally 

 a draggled, beaten fox crept into Stanford Hall Woods and 

 denied a finish to a run that would have made a field till five 

 o'clock for the rest of the season. 



WET LEICESTERSHIRE. 



What is the one chief idea that we have been accustomed 

 to associate with a grass country, and more especially with 

 the honoured name of Leicestershire, ever since we learnt to 

 hunt, or even to talk of hunting? In what have we been 

 taught to consider lies its first charm, and what does 

 experience tell us is its ruling delight ? Is it not its springy 

 turf and firm elastic footing; the power of skimming lightly 

 over the surface, and bounding gaily over its fences — heeding 

 neither pace nor would-be obstacle, but revelling in their 

 presence, and trustmg to blood and courage to make light 

 of them ? Is it not the dream of such a happiness 

 that makes provincial youth to groan, rebel against the toils 

 that hold him, and to hate his native soil ? Is it not the 

 remembrance of such that will bring a flush to the withered 

 cheek and a sparkle to the dimming eye of the Nestor, as he 

 tells how he flew the raspers side by side with the old Squii-e, 

 and held his horse as the other brushed a fox that had 

 thought himself invincible ? Is it not for this that men lavish 

 time and money, and think no sacrifice too great so long as 

 they can be m the sphere to indulge in their all-absorbing 

 pursuit ? 



But when High Leicestershire becomes a morass ; when, 

 instead of gliding lightly over ridge and furrow, pulling hard 



