The Hunting Year 



Reflecting on these subjects you emerge from 

 the wood, and as you cross the yard of Mr 

 Wheatley to catch the bridle road at the other 

 side of it to Danes Beacon, for which landmark 

 you are bound, you see the kennel cart drive up. 

 Then Mr Wheatley brings out a reluctant 

 puppy, fat perhaps, but that is a fault on the 

 right side, for he has evidently had plenty of 

 exercise. And you are called upon to examine 

 and admire the many excellencies of Runny- 

 mede, to listen to his aristocratic pedigree, full 

 of Belvoir, and Brocklesby, and Warwickshire 

 blood. 



It is very probable that you know nothing 

 whatever about a hound, but it is not necessary 

 to commit yourself. You need not attempt to 

 pass for the late Captain Percy Williams and 

 the late Mr George Lane Fox compressed into 

 one individual in your knowledge of hound lore, 

 and of make and shape, for if you do you are 

 sure to be found out. And it is not pleasant to 

 be found out, and it is so easily done. For if 

 Mr Wheatley does not hunt — his weight, a good 

 solid twenty stone prevents that — he is a rare 



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