23 THE BEST SEASON ON EECOED. 



of fux and lioiuuis tlirongliout this merry gallop, they 

 now strike throUigli the hedge almost exactly where the 

 metal ends — and while we behind gasp " Wire," they in 

 front charge a hole in the fence, and sweep down the 

 wide stretching pasture in full content. Many a gallop 

 have I ridden in Leicestershire (as 1 e'en hope to do 

 again) — and have seen hounds and horses go away from 

 me more often than I should like to say — but never has 

 the pace seemed better than now. Fast horses are 

 galloping their utmost on the fairest turf, an easy fence 

 comes perhaps in half a mile of galloping, gates are 

 either standing open or fly back at once to the crop — 

 and yet the pack is going all too fast for us unwilling- 

 laggards, till a wandering shepherd throws a chance 

 turn in our favour. Now we cross the " Melton and 

 Leicester turnpike," midway between Rearsby and 

 Brooksby ; now we have worked through a few pumping 

 acres of newly turned arable, and now we are pushing 

 up the big grass field for the covert of Bleakmore, 

 marvelling why the turf seems less elastic, and the stride 

 of our horse less conformable with ridge and furrow, 

 than only a few brief minutes ago. Yes, lungs [and 

 muscle are never in autunni what they may be after 

 Christmas — and 'tis only the commencement of the 

 lesson yet. Fondly we hug oui'selves that Bleakmore is 

 just in front ; and that in another minute we shall be on 

 foot beside our fat steeds — mopping our foreheads with 

 gusto, and flinging our tongues in noisy exuberant accord 

 on the subject of the pleasant scurry just over. Not 

 yet. For the merry ladies race onwards along the ridge 



