410 THE CREAM OF LEICESTERSHIRE. [Season 



Colonel Ewart, Major Worsley, Captains Starkey, INIiddleton, 

 Smith, Rhoades, Tennant, Longstaff, Trevor, Messrs. Harter, 

 Parker, Brocklehurst, Adair, Pennington, Lubbock, Brand, 

 Flower, Fenwick, Forester, Hume, &c., &c. 



A little spinney stands by the roadside halfway between 

 Melton and Scalford — takes its name from the latter place — 

 and, though only an acre big, generally holds a fox. People in 

 the road head him back. What matter ? The whip has homids 

 away with another somewhere — where ? A scream comes 

 down the wind, and the best experience of life — a flying start 

 — is upon us. Piide, go, grip him tight ! Plough, by all that's 

 unholy ! Yonder they flit in the swimming sunshine, like fly- 

 ing fish on the glistening sea. Lord Rocksavage did not come 

 down here to sleep at the covertside ; and he is round the 

 corner and over the blind fence beyond, with a hundred yards 

 and a galloping horse to the good. Bang, rattle, and clatter ! 

 That chesnut never did this over the clean Cottesmore bullock- 

 grounds ! Not hurt, sir ? Your legs are clear of the stirrups, 

 and it's beautiful falling — as I'll explain in the cool midday 

 when excusing the double dig of the spur which followed your 

 cropper. Captain Smith rides ten stone, and something in 

 pounds. The grey is uj) to fifteen of the former quantity, 

 and may have to carry more : so he can till the plough to a 

 merry tune. Deep, deep it is for three fields, till a leftward 

 turn throws hounds across the road for Melton Spinney ; and 

 another van, with Gillard at the head, takes up the running. 

 Mr. Harter seizes time by the fetlock {sic sweet and sporting 

 seventeen) ; and, claiming a quick garden in-and-out for his 

 own, leads a pursuit to the Melton Brook — the pack still fully 

 forward. Their hedges may be clean here, and their timber 

 honest — but it is a blunt strong honesty by no means easy to 

 overcome. Not a jump at the Melton Brook? Sad indeed — 

 and how we hug ourselves as we gallop under a railway arch, 

 to find we have bridged a bit of water that woidd frighten no 

 one outside the vaunted midlands. Along the brookside to 

 Melton Spinney — hounds go beautifully, field ditto, gates all 



