An Evening in July 



work — a fact which the novice cannot too 

 early lay to heart. 



Then as the day fades, and the moon rises 

 flooding the night with its brilliant light, our 

 huntsman host suggests a walk. Cigars are 

 thrown away for we all know — or at any rate 

 the majority of us know — that our walk has an 

 object and what that object is. 



As we stroll across the park silently a startled 

 rabbit will occasionally scuttle along in front 

 of us, and an owl will now and then sweep past 

 us with flopping wings. Ten minutes quiet 

 walking brings us within reach of a big wood — 

 a wood whose name is well known in the history 

 of our hunt — nay, well known in the history of 

 fox-hunting. For it is never drawn blank, and 

 its foxes are of the stoutest. 



We make a pretty wide detour to sink the 

 wind and then we enter the wood itself, follow- 

 ing silently in the wake of our huntsman. Down 

 the long ride we proceed, with the moonlight 

 through the trees throwing fantastic shadows 

 on our path. A startled wood-pigeon coos 

 dreamily as our footsteps disturb him; a host 



17 B 



