154 Sportsmen Parsons in Peace and War 



I once sent a favourite old hunter to Black Torrington, which 

 is quite close to Peter's Marland, to a doctor who kindly offered 

 it a good home, and the poor old thing was almost at once 

 bitten b}^ an adder and died. 



Of the many horses that have passed through Mr. Honey's 

 hands, only one was a made hunter when he bought it. As a 

 rule he only indulged in raw colts and made them into hunters 

 himself. The hunt stables held two horses, one for the whip 

 and one for himself. 



I remember once my son asking the Duke of Beaufort how 

 many horses he owned, counting those out at grass. After 

 musing awhile he admitted that he really did not know exactly, 

 but hazarded the guess that he must have " about a hundred." 

 But I doubt very much if that kind and splendid old sportsman 

 got as much fun out of his six-day-a-week establishment as 

 Mr. Honey did out of the Marland harriers. 



Before he hunted the Marland, Mr. Honey was master of the 

 Modbury harriers in South Devon during the season 1905-6, 

 and before that had whipped-in for some years. On one awful 

 occasion with this pack he realised the traditional huntsman's 

 nightmare by seeing the leading hounds disappear over the 

 cliffs. They had met at Battisborough Cross, and had a first- 

 class run of over an hour without a check, when the hare and 

 three leading hounds came to the cliffs and went over. Hasten- 

 ing to the beach by a less precipitous route to pick up the pieces, 

 he found, to his relief, that both hare and hounds had managed 

 to get down safely. The hare was sitting on a rock some way 

 out to sea, with the three hounds swimming round. As none of 

 them seemed inclined to come ashore, the master feared they 

 would be drowned, but a plucky horse-breaker, who was out, 

 volunteered to swim to them, which he succeeded in doing. 

 Another day, during the same season, he had run a hare for 

 some time, and saw her jump a bank about half a field ahead of 

 the pack. When the hounds reached the spot they checked, 

 and a forward cast failed to recover the line. At last he saw 

 the hare sitting on the roof of a shed, or " linhay," as they call 

 them down there. She had evidently run along the bank and 

 jumped on to the roof from it. 



I have seen hunted hares take to stranger hiding-places 

 than this. Once in particular I remember a pack of harriers 



