198 THE CREAM OF LEICESTERSHIKE. [Season 



foxes, and that Scraptoft Hall has lost nothing of its hospi- 

 talit}-. 



An old fox, and away in view, grass on every side, and a 

 decision just out of your lips that your horse is short of condi- 

 tion, and that you would go home. Go home iwic if you can, 

 and when you get there burn yoiu- saddles and sell your horses, 

 for your day is past, and it is time j'ou left Leicestershire. 

 Twenty couple of cleai'-throated ladies ai'e calling you on, and 

 ten acres of turf are stretching before you. Ten acres more, 

 and you have forgotten all about home and all about condition. 

 You are living in the present, and j'ou are revelling in a scene 

 that has no parallel upon earth. The spinney (of Humber- 

 stone) is a mile behind, and the deep-banked brook that nms 

 below it is only too evident before you. Over the fence to the 

 light, and you are still with the hounds, but j'et behind the 

 water. But gallop for the ford in front, and }ou will be 

 elbowed off quite three fields to the left. Will, the first 

 whip, finds a place where broken rails give a plain fly. Firr 

 and Capt. Middleton get over a hmidred yards to the left — so 

 does Lady Florence Dixie — and the flpng pack are glancing 

 alongside the rivulet at a pace that tells plainly of the scent. 

 So on for a mile or two, then the brook has to be flown again, 

 as the hounds lean away for Scraptoft. Oli, why will sheep 

 not stand still when the hunt bursts upon them ? If you stop 

 for an explanation to a question such as this, you will stop 

 till your place is beyond recover}^ — if not till your hair grows 

 Avhite. Hounds whimper right among the silh- bewildered 

 flock ; but FuT has quickly grasped the position, and cuts ofl" a 

 corner as he lifts them forward. Cold fallow fields cannot stop 

 them now ; and, thank Heaven ! the plough is not deep 

 enough yet to stop a horse that has any blood and bone to 

 lay claim to. The garden of Scraptoft Hall has many a time 

 been Eeynard's recreation ground ; but there is no child's j)lay 

 for him to-day. Through the laurels and past the plantations 

 below is the line, and a rapid one. The Scraptoft Brook is 

 not a big one, though oftentimes a terror in the distance ; and 



