ii6 Sportsmen Parsons in Peace and War 



generally leaves people gentle and good ; but Mr. Chard was 

 remarkably patient, never the least irritable, and was nursed 

 devotedly by his wife. 



Parson Chard died, if I remember rightly, sitting up in his 

 armchair in his study at Hatch Beauchamp ; he knew the end 

 was near and was only sad for those he was leaving behind. 



It is a strange coincidence that all three brothers died at 

 about the age of fifty. 



The favourite hunter of " The Bishop " was a strong, good- 

 looking, useful grey. On the day of the funeral the horse was 

 very restless, and as his master was carried down the drive it 

 followed along under the paddock railing, neighing and whinny- 

 ing, and could hardly be prevented from getting out and following 

 up the road. 



The same day his little dog, who had been fretting for his 

 master, lay quietly down and died. It seemed as if nothing 

 could do without him. 



I wonder if any of my readers ever feel the bitter resentment 

 I feel at times when I see the world showering flowers, tears, and 

 eulogies around our dear dead who have done so much for the 

 happiness and well-being of those around them during their 

 lifetime, receiving so few words of kindness and encouragement 

 in return ; and now, when too late to raise a grateful smile, 

 too late to heal the hidden sores of their hearts, kind words and 

 tears are spent in extravagant profusion. I can never help 

 repeating to myself — 



" Why do we grudge our sweets so to the living, 

 Who, God knows, find at best too much of gall, 

 And then with generous, open hand, kneel giving 

 Unto the dead our all ? " 



It makes me sad, as I write, to think how many of these 

 sportsmen have gone from us, never more to hear their cheery 

 voices ; happily nobody can rob us of their memories, and as 

 the years pass by, and we have to take to carpet-slippers and 

 mob-caps, in armchairs by the fireside, we shall live with them 

 again, in the gloaming before the lights are lit, when we are 

 nodding with our hearts asleep and our minds somewhere 

 between Here and There. 



Alas ! " The Bishop " will pass this way no more. The 



