168 mr. sponge's sporting tour. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 



MR. AND MRS. SPRINGWHEAT. 



"Lord Scamperdale's foxhounds meet on Monday at Larkhall Hill, &c. &c." 



County Paper. 



The Flat Hat Hunt had relapsed into its wonted quiet, and " Lark- 

 hall Hill " saw none but the regular attendants, men without the 

 slightest particle of curve in their hats — hats, indeed, that looked as 

 if the owners sat upon them when they hadn't them on their heads. 

 There was Fyle, and Fossick, and Blossomnose, and Sparks, and 

 Joyce, and Capon, and Dribble, and a few others, but neither Wash- 

 ball nor Puffington, nor any of the holiday birds. 



Precisely at ten, my lord, and his hounds, and his huntsman, and 

 his whips, and his Jack, trotted round Farmer Springwheat's spacious 

 back premises, and appeared in due form before the green rails in 

 front. " Pride attends us all," as the poet says; and if his lordship 

 had ridden into the yard and halloaed out for a glass of home-brewed, 

 Springwheat would have trapped every fox on his farm, and the 

 blooming Mrs. Springwheat would have had an interminable poultry- 

 bill against the hunt; whereas, simply by "making things pleasant," 

 — that is to say, coming to breakfast — Springwheat saw his corn 

 trampled on, nay, led the way over it himself, and Mrs. Springwheat 

 saw her Dorkings disappear without a murmur — unless, indeed, an 

 inquiry when his lordship would be coming could be considered in 

 that light. 



Larkhall Hill stood in the centre of a circle, on a gentle eminence, 

 commanding a view over a farm whose fertile fields and well-trimmed 

 fences sufficiently indicated its boundaries, and looked indeed as if 

 all the good of the country had come up to it. It was green and 

 luxuriant even in winter, while the strong cane-coloured stubbles 

 showed what a crop there had been. Turnips as big as cheeses 

 swelled above the ground. In a little narrow dell, whose existence 

 was more plainly indicated from the house by several healthy spind- 

 ling larches shooting up from among the green gorse, was the cover — 

 an almost certain find, with the almost equal certainty of a run from 

 it. It occupied both sides of the sandy, rabbit-frequented dell, 

 through which ran a sparkling stream, and it possessed the great 

 advantage to foot-people of letting them see the fox found. Larkhall 

 Hill was, therefore, a favourite both with horse and foot. So much 

 good — at all events so much well-farmed land would seem to justify 

 a better or more imposing-looking house, the present one consisting, 



