Part 27

Mason had a vein of originality in him. Returning from hunting to Market Harborough from Langton one afternoon, he and some others had to cross the brook. Fog came on very suddenly, and they could not find the ford; they turned back, but it was so thick they could not find the gate. Mason then said there was nothing for it but to cry “Murder,” to bring some one to their aid, and he did it lustily. Nobody coming to help, he changed his tactics. “Let’s be very jolly and laugh,” he suggested. The rest agreeing, they laughed so long and loudly, that three labourers came to see what the joke was.

The Coot, a chestnut, was another good horse. On him I had a grand gallop from Waterloo Gorse, by Tally-ho Stick Covert to ground near Cottesbrooke Park. It was a very fast thing, and there was nobody else in sight of hounds during the latter half of the run.

The Coot was well known in Leicestershire in his day. Visiting the patients in the Leicester Infirmary one day, a poor fellow, who lay very ill in his bed, called to me, “Squire, Squire,” as I was leaving the ward. Going to his bedside, I found that he wanted to enquire after the health and well-being of the Coot.

One morning, when staying at Lamport Hall, I went to meet the Quorn at Keythorpe Hall, and as I came near, Charles Leslie (then M.P. for Monaghan) came galloping forward to meet me with a message from Sir Richard Sutton. It appeared that at a large party which had taken place overnight at Quorndon Hall there had been much talk about various riders, and Sir Richard had declared that if I were out I should beat the whole field. Leslie had sent his best horse, Marmion, for me to ride; but I preferred my own, and did not regret it.

It was as well that hounds were able to run that day, for there was some pretty hard riding. They found in Ram’s Head Gorse, and ran fast, over a very strongly-fenced country, to Stockerston Wood. I led during the whole run, jumping gates and whatever else came in the way; and when hounds entered the wood the only other man in the field was Little Gilmour. Lord Cardigan was close up with him: he had put his thumb out of joint in a bad fall, and had to go home.

In talking over the riders he knew with Lord Cardigan, he paid Lord Wilton what I thought a great compliment, saying he thought nothing of his riding, “for he would jump through the bars of a gate.” It seemed to me to prove the ease with which he crossed country, and certainly few men were often as near hounds as Lord Wilton in a good run.

Sir Richard Sutton was always very kind to me. I well remember his gratification when I justified his good predictions that I should cut down the field. But on another day I had the misfortune to get into his bad books. He was going to draw Norton Gorse, and on the way we had to pass through Ilston Spinney. Having had a hint from a farmer, I made haste to get through the spinney, and when half-way heard a view halloo. Away went the fox and away went the hounds on a blazing scent—no master, no servants, and a hard riding field on the top of the pack, with nobody to keep them in hand. It was a regular scurry, and many of them got falls, among them Lord Wilton. At last hounds checked, and the Baronet came up. We had unduly pressed hounds, and nobody had a word to say when he spoke his mind about it. We all caught it in a strain we remembered, though Sir Richard never allowed an abusive word to pass his lips. Egged on by others, I begged him to let us off, promising to help kill the fox, for I had seen him in the Norton Brook while I was in the air. Hounds were got on to the line, and, settling to it, soon killed him.

“Now,” said Sir Richard, “I will serve you all out; I’ll find my next fox in Charnwood Forest.”

There was general dismay at this announcement, for Charnwood Forest was fourteen miles off. Lord Gardner, recovering the shock first, came up to me.

“You must stop this!” he said. “Go and apologise for us.” I declined, feeling and saying that I was no better than the worst among the offenders; but on Lord Gardner’s urging that “there was nobody else he would listen to,” I gave way, and Sir Richard, like the really good, kind-hearted master he was, let us off, and found another fox close by.

There were two lively young members of the Quorn who habitually pressed hounds, Colonel Forrester and Bromley Davenport, whose shortness of sight may perhaps be pleaded in extenuation. On arriving at the meet in his chariot, as the vehicle was called in the ’forties, Sir Richard enquired of his first whipper-in whether these gentlemen were out. He was told they were, and forthwith the whipper-in was ordered to draw some of the best hounds, which were put into the carriage and sent home!

Sir Richard Sutton had a strong sense of the duty of a master and the right way to discharge it. On one occasion he killed his fox in the shrubbery of a clergyman. The place was very nicely kept, and the hunt servants having made, as was rather unavoidable, rather a mess of the paths, &c., the owner wrote to complain. Sir Richard, instead of going to the meet with a pair of horses next morning, ordered out four, and went a good deal out of his way to call and apologise; to offer payment also. The clergyman, a very gentlemanly man, repented the tenor of his complaint, and Sir Richard’s anxiety to put matters right quite disarmed him. He apologised for having written, would not hear of accepting compensation, and expressed the hope that he might see hounds in his neighbourhood again soon! So much for civility.

My acquaintance with Lord Gardner, to whom I have referred before, began in a way which illustrates one phase of that good sportsman’s character. One day, when still fresh from college, I was riding a five-year-old. Lord Gardner took my place at a fence and nearly gave me a fall. I passed him in the next field, out of which there was only one place, and that beside an elm. He came at it with a rush; I gave my horse his head, and jumping side by side with Gardner threw him heavily against the tree. He reported this to Mr. Little Gilmour, but got little sympathy, Gilmour telling him that if he meddled with me he would probably get himself killed. “Do you think so?” said Gardner. “Yes I do,” replied Gilmour. “Then please introduce me to him,” said Gardner. We became fast friends, and our friendship continued all the time he stayed in the country.

Rather a funny incident occurred with the Quorn one day in a scurry from Cream Lodge Gorse. A sporting captain’s horse fell over a large ant-hill, and the soldier came down rolled in a lump. I got down and stretched him out in a furrow. It was damp, and he soon changed his position; so, remarking that if he was able to look for a dry place I thought he could take care of himself, I jumped on my horse again and went on. The gallant soldier was grievously hurt by my remark, considering it implied that he was soft. His feelings suffered more injury than his body.

In a good run with the Quorn the fox crossed the canal. We most of us rode for the bridge and stood on it until the hounds were well over. Cardigan and Wilbraham Tollemache stuck to the hounds and crossed the canal with them, Cardigan exclaiming: “I am in first, Wilbraham!” In a minute his brother-in-law exclaimed, “I am out first, Cardigan,” and jumped on his horse, leaving Cardigan struggling in the water. A man on the bridge called out: “Paddle with your ’ands, my lord; paddle with your ’ands.” There were not many feet of water.

In those days there was scarcely any wire, and the now familiar warning to “ware wire,” was rarely heard. In a gallop from Masterton Oziers one large field was fenced with it, and we made for a gate. One man stuck to the hounds, and falling head over heels over the fence was a good deal hurt. We had called out “wire” repeatedly, and the more we did so the faster he rode. His reason for doing so, he said, was that he saw it was a big jump, and thought we were calling “fire, fire,” for him to fire away at it, with plenty of steam on! Mr. Haycock, a hard-riding yeoman, went head over heels in a bottom and could not get out. Lord Macdonald coming next pulled up. Haycock called out “Come on, my Lord, there is accommodation for you here as well as for me.” The Lord of the Isles declined the invitation. Haycock sold a nice horse to a Duke, who took him to task for selling him such a brute. “What’s the matter, your Grace?” “He has been running away with me all the morning.” “If that is all I don’t care; when he was mine I was always running away with him.” Sir James Musgrave, riding a nice horse, told him he was slovenly at timber. “Take him out on Sunday morning, Sir James, and give him a few heavy falls over timber,” was his advice.

No fence is as nice as timber if your horse knows his business, but do not take liberties with it with the sun in your horse’s eyes, or be heard to call out “ware horse”; it is always “ware hound.” Another hint—do not hunt in a cap, as it will not give way in a fall, but your neck may.

Gumley Wood was at one time unintentionally spoiled as a covert by the clergyman of Gumley. He was a mighty collector of moths; he so bedaubed with treacle the trees in the wood that the foxes would not lay in it; but we always found in the gorse close by. In the next parish lived one of Whyte Melville’s heroes, Parson Dove. Jogging home after hunting one evening, I asked him how he filled up his spare time in the summer; he said he gardened a good deal. Enquiry elicited that there was but one flower he cared for, and that was a cauliflower.

ROBERT FELLOWES.

(_To be continued._)

The Education of the Puppy.

Within a few short weeks the unwelcome words, “To finish the season,” will all too often appear as the corollary to the weekly newspaper announcements of hunting fixtures, and already “the stinking violet,” that is reported to have been anathematised by one of the greatest among huntsmen of the past as the means of smothering scent, is filling the air with the perfume of spring.

At this season, when the trout fisherman is rejoicing in the warmer weather, that promises to bring about a hatch of March browns, and the shooting man is thinking of the first eggs of early-laying pheasants, when all the world welcomes the balmy days of spring, only the foxhunter is heard to complain. He is forgetful of the fact that he alone of the army of sportsmen enjoys a full six months of his favourite pastime, a six months that may be extended to eight, if he will content himself with the sport afforded by one or two of the woodland packs which, beginning cubhunting in the month of August, never consider the season finished until a May fox has been killed.

But even the discontented foxhunter, if he be worthy of the name of sportsman, can find something to do in connection with the “sport of kings” to while away the weary months until the dewy September morning, which finds him once more revelling in the music of hounds as they teach the cubs their business.

For some weeks, at any rate before his charges return to kennels, he cannot find better employment than the personal supervision of the education of the puppies, one or two of which, as an enthusiastic hunting man, we must take it for granted that he is walking. True it is that he will not have many weeks to devote to them ere the spring cart from the kennels makes its appearance to carry them off, loath though they may be to undergo what will be to them the most important part of their training, or to be drafted into the ranks of the unentered should they not prove equal to the standard, either in height, pace or quality, required by the particular hunt to which they belong.

Short although the time remaining may be for what we can term the preparatory schooling of the puppies, the ardent foxhunter may yet do much to make the youngsters committed to his care more fitted to take their places in the public school to which they are so soon to be removed. During the busy hunting season when their care has been in the hands of his deputies, our hunting man has probably thought little of the education of the puppies, which, maybe, will later on contribute to his next season’s enjoyment. But now that he has perforce to remain more at home he may discover that his duty as a private schoolmaster has been sadly neglected, and the puppies that should have been a credit to him have, from lack of the proper attention, grown up dunces, with all their good manners yet to be learnt, and many bad ones to be thrashed out of them. Let him then take them in hand at once, and endeavour to repair some of the mischief that his laxness has brought about. The hours spent in thus occupying himself will not be wasted, and he will feel the satisfaction of having done something for the hunt that has so often provided him with sport in the past.

To judge by the accompanying picture reproduced from a coloured engraving of considerable antiquity, the custom of sending puppies out to walk is of very long standing. It will be noticed that the puppies are to be conveyed to their destinations in bags or panniers slung across the saddle. The artist has depicted the kennel huntsman, faultlessly arrayed in scarlet, tall hat and top boots, trimming with a pair of scissors the ears of one of a good litter of puppies about to be sent to walk. The picture is suggestive of a train of thought that it may be well to give expression to at the present time, when the duty of puppy-walkers to their charges is under consideration, and possibly a few thoughts upon puppy management may induce the negligent walker to exercise greater care another season, even if it is too late to put them into practice during the time that remains before last year’s puppies return to kennel.

First and foremost comes the thought of the comparatively few who are really qualified to walk a foxhound puppy. Many who undertake the duty do not appear to have their hearts in the work, their main object being to keep the puppies out of harm’s way—not so much to save the puppy _from_ harm as to prevent him _doing_ harm. On the other hand, there are some walkers who, in their anxiety to do well by the puppy, and give him enough exercise, allow him to run wild and to hunt hares. Of course, plenty of exercise is essential for the well-being of a foxhound, and in order to ensure his getting it the puppy should daily accompany some reliable person, be he the groom exercising horses or the tradesman who has long country rounds to make. The importance of his being a trustworthy man, who has his heart in the work, cannot be overrated, far more harm than good being done if, instead of keeping his charges in order, he encourages them to run wild. In this connection it may be mentioned that it does not always follow that foxhounds entered in their youth to hare are afterwards useless for fox, for many instances can be recalled of such puppies having turned out to be thoroughly reliable hounds, that would stick to a cold line even with hares jumping up in front of them; but it is a risky proceeding to give puppies exercise by allowing them to hunt ground game, and may lead to endless trouble.

As to the home treatment of foxhound puppies, no better advice can be given than that contained in a leaflet recently noticed in these pages. One thing to which due attention is often not paid is the accommodation provided for young foxhounds. Too many puppies are allowed to run about all day picking up filth, disturbing coverts, and doing all kinds of mischief; and then are left to find a damp, draughty bed in a wood house. On really wet days it is better to keep them shut up, except for a short time, during which they should have a sharp run, care being taken that a good bed of clean straw is afterwards provided in which to dry themselves. If allowed to remain wet, and to lie on the damp ground, evil results are bound to follow. It is also of the utmost importance that they should be shut up at night, otherwise everyone is molested, and bad habits, such as cattle and sheep worrying, are sure to be contracted.

A couple of puppies should always be walked together. They certainly thrive better, nor do they fret so much when first sent out, or when first taken back to kennels, although it must be confessed that where two or three are gathered together the capacity for mischief is not only doubled, but perhaps quadrupled. But if it is, the sport they will some day provide will more than compensate their walker for the few shillings they will cost him. As companions to children foxhounds cannot be surpassed, and many an hour will be whiled away in each other’s company, each keeping the other out of mischief.

A very sore point with puppy walkers, and one to which more attention might well be paid, is the fact that they are often requested to walk and do well for a couple of puppies possibly for six months, but when these puppies are returned to the kennels it is only to be destroyed, and often their fate has been perfectly evident for some months previously. The walker naturally feels aggrieved when such an ending comes to hounds on which he has spent time and money. Now, to remedy this state of affairs, it has been suggested that the kennel huntsman or some other responsible person should always be in touch with all puppies at walk, and should, as soon as he can detect for certain the worthlessness of a puppy, be entitled to relieve the walker of it, and thus save him unnecessary expense and much disappointment.

In conclusion, every member of a hunt, and everyone who has the well-being of foxhunting at heart, should feel himself under an obligation to walk a couple of puppies for his hunt, and thus relieve the master of the necessity for sending promising hounds to unsuitable walkers. But, quite apart from any obligation, the pleasure to be derived from seeing “puppies grow into hounds” will well recompense him, even if they never become shining lights in the pack, or win prizes at the Peterborough Show.

F.

A few Cocks and some Rabbits.

The shooting season is drawing to a close. One can almost fancy that there is a touch of spring in the air. The long frost has gone at last, and the thoughts of bird and beast are turning once more towards love and war. Far above us in the rocking elms, the rooks are noisily putting their own houses in order, and thievishly beggaring their neighbours. The partridges, no longer huddled together in thinned coveys, their feathers so fluffed out that they look double their natural size, have here and there already paired off. Old George, the keeper, reports that another twenty or thirty cocks can be spared, and that during the frost the hungry rabbits have been working havoc among the young trees. They must be thinned, or something is sure to be said presently on the subject of damages.

So a day is fixed for a last shoot, and, making an early start, four old friends walk across the quiet fields towards the Big Wood. Two guns are placed forward, and two walk with the beaters. I am one of the former, and, left to myself, the mystery of the Big Wood gets into my bones, and I begin to dream dreams. The silence is absolute. Presently, a tinted cloud of long-tailed tits invade the bushes round me, eager to discover an atom of greenery, and, if they do, quite prepared—if I may be allowed a forlorn little joke—to nip it in the bud. They remind one of a troop of lesson-freed children raiding the strawberry beds, in the hope that some early fruit may happily be found, ripe enough, in their very liberal interpretation of the term, to eat. My covert is drawn blank, so the tits are off, with a scolding complaint, to try their luck elsewhere.... Two rabbits, unconscious of impending fate, chase each other far down the ride which stretches before me. Silence reigns once more. Then, long before I can hear the beaters, pat, pat, pat, come some halting footsteps over the carpet of leaves. It is a wary old cock pheasant, already on the alert, and by no means unconscious of trouble ahead. He looks inky black in the shadow. He runs forward a few yards, then stops to listen; on again to the right, but, not satisfied, bustles back. An excursion to the left, but scenting danger there, he is back again. Then, irresolute, he stands facing me in the sunlight, with his bright eyes and gorgeous coat of many colours. He has played this game many times, and so far his head has kept his life. With my back to a tree, I do not move an eyelid, but he sees me, or smells my pipe, and back for good and all he scuttles, head down, with the evident intention of executing a flank movement to the rear. There is a cry of “cock back,” in the direction in which my friend disappears, but no answering gun. I like to think that the wicked old rascal has once more out-manœuvred us, and saved his skin. As the beaters push on, all the guns become busy. The bunnies are hustled noisily forward, and in the comparatively open space are bowled over, or, bolting back, have a shade of odds in their favour, some of them, I am afraid, being “picked off the beaters’ toes.” Hens come whistling over, offering most tempting shots. B., on my left, crumples up a very high one, because, _he says_, she had a leg down. Beaters and the other guns now emerge, and the slain are laid out and counted. Twenty-five rabbits, two cocks, a hare, and B.’s hen. Old George eyes her and B. suspiciously, and, feeling her all over, mutters “_he_ didn’t see no leg down.” Nearly all the cocks have run on, but will be cornered presently. So the day wears on, monotonously delightful, one beat in the Big Wood being very much like another. But at lunch there seems to be some mystery in the air. Our host and old George are to be seen whispering together like conspirators; old George’s ribston pippin of a face screwed up into something as near a grin as it ever wears, while our host looks humorously perplexed. I notice afterwards that we leave out a certain beat, and call old George’s attention to the omission. “Never you mind Muster A., you go where you’re told,” is all I get for my pains. The old man still treats me as if I were about ten, the age at which he began to teach me to shoot. The mystery remained one until after dinner that night, when our host let the cat out of the bag, under solemn vows of secrecy. That beat was left out because in it lay a fine dog fox, shot through the head by the Master who was out with us, and who had shot at a rabbit in the thick undergrowth. Thus was the blood of many a bunny avenged, and poor “Charlie” met an inglorious end in the house of his friends. Old George, and no one else, happened to see the tragedy, and notwithstanding my protest that it was much too good a story to keep to ourselves, the Master knows nothing of the murder to this day.

As I have said, George and I are very old friends, but we are also very old antagonists. He is a great politician; a Radical of the Radicals, while of course with him I am a Tory of the Tories. To-day I manage to score off him; no easy matter at any time. He had picked up some early primroses in the wood, and put them into his button-hole, to keep for a certain young lady, a prime favourite of his, who, with our hostess, is to join us at lunch. Before he could give them to her I caught him by the sleeve, and, pointing to the flowers, cried:—

“Hullo, George, I’ve always said that you would see the error of your ways some day. So you’ve actually joined the League. Who captured you? Lady Mary?”