1872—73.] THE ASFORDBY RASPERS. 95 



should have tingled the ears of the farmer, who put up the foul 

 enghie, with a shame that cried murder. Hajjpily and unex- 

 pectedly, the snare draws out ; but the chilling cry of wire is 

 slight encoui'agement to the scores of good men just reaching 

 the obstacle. On over the grass towards Asfordby, the next 

 fence an old heathen that has apparently never been jumped 

 before — not a vulnerable point in its composition, till Tom Firr 

 hits off its one weak place, and bores a hole through its im- 

 penetrable looking face. Then ensue a succession of choking 

 raspers (I can use no other expression), that cold blood would 

 have deemed approachable only by a kangaroo or a Trotter, 

 and would have wondered how so much good land could be 

 wasted in growing blackthorn. Hot blood, however, must be 

 served ; hounds are racing away three hundred j^ards m front ; 

 and such moments might awaken the heart's blood of a 

 mummy. Mr. Foster is to the front now ; and he and the 

 huntsman are working side by side to break the stiff backbone 

 of this stubborn country. Now and again they have to skirt 

 up the whole of a narrow inclosure, only to find the easiest 

 place a full measure of theii" horse's strength. So quick and 

 sudden does one black and aged thorn fence succeed another, 

 that there is no choice of place as each is opened out by the 

 negotiation of its predecessor ; so hounds — running close and 

 keen as wolves — are seldom in view, no time is given to hit off 

 a feasible spot, and the leaders can make but a zigzag course. 

 In the whole of the Quorn country there is no stiffer part than 

 that which lies at the back of Asfordby Village. All the 

 fences are formidable, many are unjumpable. How do you get 

 out now, my gay pilots ? — not a smooth spot in the engirdling 

 breakers that face you in jouv hasty despairing survey. Tom 

 Firr is the first to make up his mind to the Curtian effort ; 

 and, in a fashion that can only have been taught by Capt. 

 Thomson, wriggles through a tangled bullfinch that had exist- 

 ence years and years before the "oldest inhabitant" of 

 Asfordby. A forlorn hope it is, though — his horse prone in 

 the ditch, his cap hung up on one side, and his whip torn out 



