The Hunting Year 



The February sun was shining softy over 

 the trees of the park in which the fox was killed, 

 casting pale shadows on the grass, when the 

 huntsman gave his hounds the fox they so 

 richly deserved, for they had hunted well under 

 trying circumstances. They had eaten him, 

 and still the happy few lingered on the spot, 

 wondering why the Master made no move. " It 

 was Sherston Brook that killed him," said the 

 huntsman. And then the field, who had gone 

 round, began to turn up in twos and threes, 

 and the Master began to condole with them on 

 what they had missed, and describe the beauties 

 of the run. " It was not fast — not what you 

 call fast. We had plenty of time to watch the 

 hounds that had the line. Oh, I'm so sorry, 

 Mr X, you hadn't your brook jumper. It's 

 always as well to have one clever at water in this 

 country." Such was the consolation delivered 

 to the worst delinquents of the morning, each 

 being addressed individually, and then the word 

 was given for home, for by this time the distant 

 village clock was striking four. 



One frequently hears the impatient hunting 

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