Pcshawur and the Khybcr Pass 47 



a trot cherished to the last. Many of them are gifts 

 from packs at home, and out of these drafts occasionally 

 a skirter, a mute runner, or a noisy one, is to be seen. 

 Miscellaneous they must be, immaculate never ; but the 

 P.V.H. has at the same time many virtues it shows 

 capital sport, it affords endless fun, and it is without 

 exception the best hunt in India. Ootacamund is not 

 nearly as good a country, besides being short of jacks. 



Our M.F.H. takes a look at the watch in his 

 wrist-strap 6 a.m. sharp one note on his horn, a 

 reminder from the whips, and the pack moves off down 

 a sandy road shaded with tamarisks. 



There were half a dozen ladies out besides ourselves ; 

 one among them, the well-known Lady Harvey, looks 

 upon Peshawur as an Indian Melton, and brings her 

 stud there regularly every season ; in spite of her 

 short sight she went well. One good lady boasted 

 a lineless, peach-bloom complexion, which hurried her 

 home at the least sign of rain. 



We jog along for a couple of miles, and almost 

 as soon as we reach the covert, a marshy jheel lying 

 in some delightfully fresh meadows, a ringing Tally 

 ho ! on the far side proclaims that a jack has already 

 gone away. A moment while stirrup-leathers are 

 adjusted and solar topis strapped on, and the field 

 is off, 



Here's a health to all hunters of every degree, 

 Whether clippers or craners or hill-top abiders ; 



The man that hates hunting he won't do for me, 

 And ought to be pumped on by gentlemen riders. 



