1S7S— 70.] QUICK MARCH. 291 



liack to hunter — and there is a business feeling in the air that 

 is altogether apart from the heav}' slackness of a primrose 

 mornuig. With a plethora of foxes at Baggrave v.e have often 

 dwelt long before settling to a run. Who then will now be- 

 lieve that a galloping whip means an3'thing but a skirting 

 hound driven back into covert — the pack scarcely in the gorse ? 

 Tongues are wagging ; stories are half told ; steeds are champ- 

 ing; and 3'ou sit at ease. But one, here and there, is restless 

 — with ear cocked, and e5'e that strajs from anecdote and 

 chaff. By Jupiter, they're awa^- ! "Behind there's the 

 master's faint chiding, as vain as the Norseman's reproof to 

 the sea." They're gone ; and you must go — and push over the 

 sticky meadow, and its short deep ridges, as fast as a short 

 back and lengthy shoulders can be driven. A single blast of 

 the horn stra3's up the wind. " They may be a mile away 

 ah'eady ; and I'm a miserable man ! " A second rough 

 meadow. Hold his head tight, and let him have the rowels ! 

 Here come the pack swinging across 5'ou. You are more in 

 luck now, than tliej'' who, like you, were penned at the other 

 far corner. For on the right you have galloped one side of 

 the square. They have a wide angle to turn. And now you 

 ma}' cling as close to Firr's coat tails as you can. His scream 

 Avill live in your dreams to-night — as he takes tlie horn from 

 his lips to cheer the stragglers to the head. You lift the old 

 horse (or the young one) off his head as he tips tlie timber and 

 drops into a deep furrow. With both heels in you send him 

 up hill, as huntsman and Master (for the ]Master is there now) 

 scarcely leave daylight in a high-grown bullfinch ; and you sit 

 back to steady him where they have floAvn a wide place in the 

 bottom, prefaced by honest ash rails. Hunting isn't dead yet. 

 "NVhat a pace the little ladies go ! How long can it last ? For 

 the turf is all but dry — and now they strike a fallow. The 

 glitter is gone ; but there is plenty still to enjoy ; and your 

 blood need not drop to zero yet. The Beeby brook is crossed 

 — a small place here, but an awkward creep, with a Leicester- 

 shire horse lately roused, and yourself in a hurry. Ah, a 



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