An August Morning 



ing mornings is that every man who is out is a 

 sportsman, loving hounds for their own sake as 

 well as for the gallop they give, and with a keen 

 appreciation of hound work. The " thrusting 

 scoundrel," as a well-known M.F.H. termed 

 him, is conspicuous by his absence; the man 

 who rushes to the meet in a motor-car, and who 

 overrides hounds whenever opportunity offers, 

 is happily engaged elsewhere on, to him, more 

 congenial pursuits. 



Our friend the keeper, you may be sure, is 

 there to have a word with the huntsman, and as 

 he walks down to the wood-side with him, his 

 honest face aglow with enthusiasm, he tells of 

 four litters at least, and hopes " you'll get hold 

 of one or two, for they've been mortal trouble- 

 some of late.'' As a matter of fact there are only 

 three litters, but the keeper is a good fellow who 

 would as soon think of shooting a man as a fox, 

 and it is easy to count a litter twice. 



Specially favoured by the huntsman, we are 

 told off to watch the main earth, and as we jog 

 down the ride to that familiar spot how the 

 history of the past and bright hopes for the 



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