14 THE BEST SEASON ON RECORD. 



Tantalus to a man who sliould be carrying the horn with 

 such a pack. 



Wednesday's was a lovely morning — if it led neither 

 to good news nor to great sport. Bright, cool and 

 autumnal, with the grass sparkling everywhere with 

 glistening dewdrops, and trees and hedges radiant with 

 every hue from darkest green to ruddiest orange. Never 

 was a canter to covert accomplished under pleasanter 

 auspices, never were daydreams more freely and happily 

 prompted. The roadside turf seemed to spring to the 

 hoofstroke ; the sharp air fanned one's cheeks into a 

 glow and filled one's lungs with life — while the very 

 magpies chattered two by two in merry augury. 



Ten o'clock was the trysting time at Clawson Thorns ; 

 and only a slender company assembled to see wdiat 

 treasures the casket might contain. For neither this 

 covert, Holwell Mouth, nor Old Hills had yet been 

 drawn — and rumour had it that the first and last con- 

 tained quite two litters apiece. Nor was rumour on 

 this occasion far beyond the mark. Each held at least 

 three or four brace of foxes — and the day was quite a 

 cubhunting, or cubkilling, one. One fat innocent paid 

 the penalty in Clawson Thorns ; and two fell victims in 

 the wooded basin of Old Hills — wdiere for a time every 

 hound seemed to be running his own fox. The neigh- 

 bourhood is evidently essentially foxhunting. Labourers 

 from the fields, and red-dusted workers from the Holwell 

 ironpits (for alas, iron is now found only too plenti- 

 fully even in Leicestershire), trooped up by scores, to 

 form a boisterous and appreciative audience round tlie 



