MY FIEST DAY'S FOX-HUNTING 



But that was six or seven years ago, and I frankly 

 admit that then I was a very indifferent horseman, 

 although I was in happy ignorance of the fact — in 

 its integrity. I was quite conscious that I did not 

 ride very gracefully or over-comfortably, but I 

 always discovered that the fault was my horse's 

 and not mine. My cousins used to think other- 

 wise, and I have spent hours at a time in trying 

 to induce them to give up their opinions on the 

 subject and to adopt mine. I should explain that 

 my cousins being orphans, and my father being 

 their guardian, they lived with us as part of our 

 family, and that whenever they rode out they 

 seemed to think they had a right to insist upon my 

 accompanying them. I at length got tired of 

 riding out with my fair cousins, and of hearing 

 them titter as, at their suggestion, we went down 

 steep hills at full trot (I confess I was never great 

 at trotting down hill), and so I resolved to take to 

 hunting. I had heard that some horses, though 

 the worst of hacks, made the best of hunters ; and 



