1885. 153 



below. A thick drizzle did not make it more 

 cheerful as we wended our way home moralising 

 on the uncertainty of sport. 



December 7th. — 



My account of this week's sport must 

 necessarily be short, partaking more of quality 

 than quantity, as hounds were only out for two 

 days, and then King Frost laid the grip of his 

 iron hand on Mother Earth and sent us sliding 

 home. But to-day it was all quality. We met at 

 Hazelgrove, and had ran through the Spinnies 

 hard by, and were just going into Yarcombe, 

 when a "holloa" was heard, and we saw a fox 

 stealing down a hedgerow ; hounds were clapped 

 on instantly, and never was a starter's flag 

 lowered to a more distinct race than the run 

 that ensued. Down wind as hard as we could 

 go, the Master's good grey. White Oats, piloting 

 us as long as we could keep him in view, 

 straight for Annis Hills, where he disdained to 

 dwell, but, leaving it on his left, he bore on fast, 

 over several fields to Poddimore, past the village, 

 and on to the left of the high road, up to 



