CHAPTER III. 



AN AUTUMN GALLOP. 



^55 HE last Friday in October was signalised by 

 l^mG as last and cheery a gallop as is likely to 

 ^^ mark the Quorn season '83 '84. Thirty flying 

 minutes from Gaddesby Spinney, over some of the 

 prettiest ground of the Hunt, and with just enough 

 people for the requirements of good fellowship. A hun- 

 dred might have ridden to hounds, without getting in 

 each other's way — so hiir, open, and roomy was the 

 country of to-day. 



There are times when one should write and there are 

 times when the pen seems loaded with lead — as there are 

 times, with most of us, when the tongue must fling, and 

 other times (and those possibly the most inconvenient) 

 when the tongue is clogged and intellect is stubbornly 

 dull. The hour for telling a gallop is, perliaps, while the 

 spirit is still aflame, before a night's unconsciousness has 

 drifted the brain elsewhere, and, much more, before other 

 pursuits have occupied the mind or the platitude of daily 

 life has achieved a reaction almost approaching sadness. 

 To-morrow we shall no longer live in the ride, no longer 

 breathe excitement, no longer be moving cheek by jowl 



