272 FOX-HUNTING IN THE SHIRES 



alone ; and with a peck forward, a desperate re- 

 covery, and another blunder we are going again. 

 There is a tuft of grass on the toe of the off boot, one 

 curb rein over his ears, one stirrup hanging loose ; 

 and, as he breasts the hill, we take a pull. The horse 

 loses ground by this, but he must be steadied, for 

 such a mischance takes half a mile or more of staying 

 power from him. Now we see the wires of the tele- 

 graph ahead and hope for a much-needed check. 



We jump over this low stile into the road and trot 

 steadily on the hard surface for the level crossing. 

 Once over the rail, we hear the music of the pack 

 ringing the changes, as first one hound and then 

 another takes up the story and tells it to his fellows. 

 They are turning towards us, and now we can see, 

 as they pass close in front, one of the prettiest sights 

 in the world, a pack running on a serving scent. What 

 intensity of concentration ; what resolution ! They 

 are no longer the domestic hound cribbed, cabined 

 and confined in a kennel, but they are enjoying all 

 the fierce delights of the wild red dogs, the sone kuttc 

 of the jungles. But we must be quick. Like a torrent 

 they rush past. As a dream they will have vanished. 

 Oh, the good fortune of that pull, for now up-hill we 

 are toiling, and after five miles of such pace and over 

 some stiff country even good horses falter. Then 

 there is the down-hill gallop in our favour. 



Who was it that cautioned riders against galloping 

 hard down hill ? Put the horse's head straight, pull 

 him right back on his quarters, and he will hardly be 

 doing more than if he was standing still. But now, 

 again, there is one of the steepest declivities in 

 Leicestershire before us. Hounds are hunting steadily, 

 and over a beautiful line of country, where the grass 

 is firm and the fences clean and fair, the pack works 



