A Run 121 



varieties — this is not a select hunt in the Shires, but 

 one which for over a century has been famous in its own 

 country and surrounding districts. Some half-dozen 

 ladies add picturesqueness to the field, and as the throng 

 canters across the park, the rear is brought up by those 

 who are determined to see as much as is possible on 

 wheels. With average luck and a knowledge of the 

 country that is often a great deal. 



What would happen if there was not a fox in the 

 home covert is a question to which an answer has 

 never been needed, for a fox is always there. While 

 snugly coiled up in a dry mossy bank sheltered by tall 

 ferns at the foot of an old oak he has heard the approach- 

 ing sounds, the significance of which he knows. He 

 heard them a few weeks ago, on an occasion which made 

 a very disagreeable impression on him, for an alarming 

 clamour had so seriously disturbed him that he had felt 

 it advisable to make all possible haste to an occasional 

 resting-place in a wood some half-dozen miles away, and 

 till he took refuge in a rabbit-hole, on the original tenants 

 of which he had previously supped, the offensive din 

 behind him had not ceased. He is therefore very quickly 

 on the alert. He listens for one moment, ears pricked, 

 brush stiffened, a light in his keen, intelligent eye, to 

 assure himself that this is not an ugly dream — he had been 

 reduced to rook for supper, and the bird he happened 

 to find was, as Tennyson says, many summered — and 

 then, there being no mistake about it, glides rapidly 

 through the undergrowth, slips through a meuse, and 

 with a whisk of his brush sets his face for High Elm 

 Oorse. 



Meantime, with a wave of the arm, Bill the huntsman 

 has sent his pack into the covert. He jumps in after 



