Part 33

The wild goose is the only bird in Manitoba that is not protected by the Game Laws, and you can shoot him all the year round if you can get him. About the second week in April they come north from Mexico and Florida, and remain on Lake Whitewater till the first week in May, when they go north to the shores of the Hudson Bay to breed, coming south again in the fall of the year, remaining till the lake freezes up, when they go south as far as Mexico for the winter. I have known keen sportsmen, to whom time and money are no object, follow them thus through North America. Lake Whitewater is about fifteen miles long and six miles across, and not more than 5 ft. deep in the deepest part, with about 1 ft. of mud on the bottom. The water is alkali, and no fish are able to live in it. Its bottom is covered with small shells and this is the only reason I can think why the geese are so partial to it. They can feed on the bottom of the lake with ease, and being in the centre of a splendid wheat country they can quickly get out on to the stubble, and they feel they can sleep safely on the lake at night. The latest reports I had from this neighbourhood were very bad.

It appears that there is an American syndicate armed with a swivel-gun that comes over the line (the lake being close to the American border), and shoots the geese down in hundreds as they lie peacefully on the surface of the water at night, and, of course, they have hitched up and driven over the border with their spoil before daylight.

The local Game Guardian is evidently afraid to tackle them by himself, and the Western Canadian farmer is not sufficiently a sportsman to lend a hand. But it is a standing disgrace to the district that they should allow such a resort for geese to be ruined by a handful of Yankees, who have no legal right to shoot there whatever. Besides, the lake is quite a source of income to the little town which adjoins it, where the sportsmen who frequent this spot year after year buy all their provisions, ammunition, &c. If the citizens would only band together and make up their minds to catch the marauders red-handed, it could easily be done at a small cost, and this splendid resort for the wildfowler preserved for the future, whereas under the present conditions the birds will soon either be exterminated or driven to choose some other spot for their abode.

BORDERER, JUNIOR.

“Hunting Ladies.”

So much has it become an accepted fact that ladies in the hunting field, like motor cars, are there to stay, that it is perhaps unnecessary to trace the evolution of the modern sportswoman, or note her gradual development from the timid heroine of former days to the Diana of the present time, who is capable of holding her own with some of our best men across the stiffest country, of selecting her own hunters, and who possesses a thorough knowledge of all the details of stable management.

“Hunting ladies,” says a well-known contemporary, “drop into two classes, the industrious apprentice and the lotus eater,” and, without entirely endorsing such a sweeping assertion, there is much truth in the statement.

“The industrious apprentice” knows all about stable management and the price of forage, can identify a vixen with the tail of her eye, and may be followed with confidence in a big wood. She rides to the meet, knows all the bridle-roads, and three or four times during the season spends a Sunday afternoon on the flags.

Have we not all met her prototype?

The “lotus eater” will ride nothing but the best, has a preference for long-tailed horses with plaited manes, drives to the meet in a brougham, rides home at an inspiriting canter, and devotes the evening to the care of her complexion, the repose of her person, a Paquin tea-gown, and the infatuation of her latest admirer!

Possibly some may think this an exaggerated picture; still, many women in hunting countries go out because they are bored at home, because they see their friends and can talk scandal, because the hunt uniform is becoming; in short, for every conceivable reason, save and except a true love of sport.

It is, however, with the different types of the genuine sportswoman that we are now principally concerned, and though comparisons are always odious, yet we must acknowledge that it is only by comparing our own talents and performances with those of others that we can obtain a true estimate of their merit.

There is perhaps no more wholesome or profitable lesson for either man or woman than to be transplanted from the small provincial pack, where they have been considered a “bright and particular star,” to a fashionable hunt in the Shires, there to find themselves pitted against other stars whose light is considerably stronger than their own.

No doubt the good man or woman in an indifferent country will soon come to the front in any hunt, but competition is very severe, and whereas it is comparatively easy to make your mark in a field of forty, it is undoubtedly difficult to obtain a like distinction amongst the flower of a Leicestershire field.

Hunting is almost the only national sport in which men and women meet on really equal terms, and of late years women’s horsemanship, and perhaps we may say capacity for self-help, has increased so enormously that it must be a selfish man indeed who could truthfully declare that the presence of the average hunting woman in the field is now any real detriment to sport.

Also beauty in distress is a rarer object than in former days. Some few years ago, taking a lady out hunting practically meant an entire sacrifice of the day’s sport; now we seldom see Mr. B. off his horse, in a muddy lane, doing his frenzied best to improvise a breast-plate from a piece of string and the thong of his hunting crop for Mrs. G.’s horse, who possesses that intolerable fault in a lady’s hunter, a lack of “middle.” Self-girthing attachments have also obviated the irritating and incessant demand, “Would you be so kind as to pull up the girths of my saddle?” And ladies are undoubtedly much more helpful about mounting themselves.

We often hear it stated by the last generation that, since women invaded the masculine domain and took to cultivating field sports so enthusiastically, men have become less chivalrous and considerate in their manner and behaviour to the weaker sex.

Of course, now all intercourse between men and women is on a completely different footing to what it was fifty years ago, nevertheless there is no reason to suppose that a man respects a woman less because he does not address her in the language of Sir Charles Grandison, and there is still ample opportunity for the ordinary attentions and courtesies which women have a right to expect, and which we must own, in strict justice, it is usually their own fault if they fail to receive.

As far as horsemanship is concerned, we think men and women may be considered to divide the honours of the hunting field fairly evenly.

Even Surtees, who was by no means an advocate of hunting women, pronounced that when women did ride “they generally rode like the very devil,” they know no medium course, and are undeniably good or seldom go at all.

Every one will allow that with the long reins entailed by their position in the saddle, their firm seat and light hands, women are singularly successful in controlling a fidgety or fretful horse, and, in fact, are capable of riding any good hunter, provided he is not a determined refuser and puller; but if we analyse those qualities in which even good horsewomen fail, an eye for country and an ability to go their own line are unquestionably absent.

We once heard an enthusiastic sportsman declare that, in his opinion, no one who could not go their own line should be allowed to wear the Hunt button, but if all M.F.H.’s agreed with him upon this point, the greater percentage of their field would go buttonless.

Whyte Melville used to entreat lady riders “not to try to cut out the work, but rather to wait and see one rider at least over a leap before attempting it themselves”; still, with all deference to such a well-known authority, we cannot agree upon this point, as riding one’s own line entails that combination of valour and judgment which is the test of a really first-rate man or woman to hounds.

It is wonderful in a large field of horsewomen how remarkably few can live even three fields with hounds without a pilot; the path of glory may be said to lead, if not to the grave, at least to loss of hounds and frequent falls, yet, perhaps, there is no such intense rapture experienced as the bit of the run which we can truthfully assert we rode entirely “on our own.”

She had kept her own place with a feeling of pride, When her ear caught the voice of a youth alongside, “There’s a fence on ahead that no lady should face; Turn aside to the left—I will show you the place.”

* * * * *

To the field on the left they diverted their flight; At that moment the pack took a turn to the right.

If a lady is unable to go her own line and selects a pilot, she should remember that she is conferring no honour or pleasure upon her chosen victim, rather the reverse, as in most cases her company is “neither asked nor wanted.”

In return for his good offices, therefore, she should at least refrain from reproaches, if his judgment is not always infallible, neither should she weary him with unnecessary and tiresome questions, such as, “Can Tally-ho jump a really big place?” or, as we once heard while a whole field were waiting, strung up at the only available place, in the fence, “Bertie, Bertie, _ought_ I to jump on the beans?”

Many women ruin their nerve and limit their amusement by persistently riding only one or two especial horses; whereas, if they made an occasional change in their stud and rode as many fresh mounts as they could possibly obtain, it would be an incalculable advantage to both their courage and their horsemanship.

If there is one point more than another in which the modern horsewoman triumphs over her prototype of the last generation, it is in the matter of economy. Up to a few years ago, in addition to the chaperonage of a male relative, it would have been considered quite impossible for any lady to hunt unless she had a groom especially told off to dance attendance upon her, a necessity which added very considerably to the expenses of hunting.

Now that both this custom and the also old-fashioned idea that a horse required special training to render him fit to carry a lady have died away, women can mount themselves both better and cheaper than formerly, and, thanks to their good hands and light weights, are able to make use of the many good little horses which fetch such comparatively small prices at Tattersalls’ and elsewhere.

Those who regard hunting as a luxury to be reserved exclusively for the wealthy would possibly be surprised to find upon how very small a sum many keen sportswomen obtain their season’s amusement; and certainly in this department, at all events, the “industrious apprentice” triumphs over her “lotus-eating” sister. We have read in sporting novels, and even come across an isolated case in real life, of a lady who professed to act as her own groom. Yet here we must draw the line, for it must be an exceptional woman indeed who can turn to and strap a horse after the exertion a day’s hunting entails. The majority of ladies in such circumstances, we feel sure, would agree with the ethics of an old “teakettle” groom, who was wont to observe that he did not “’old with all that they cleaning and worriting ’oss, after ’unting; guv ’im a good an bid o’ straw and let ’im roll and clean hisself!”

Still, without actual manual labour, the eye of a mistress who knows how things ought to be done is a valuable adjunct to the efficacy of stable management; and when this is the case, old Jorrock’s precept may be laid down as correct, namely, “Hunting is an expensive amusement or not, jest as folks choose to make it.”

Finally, do men admire ladies in the field, or do they prefer to find their womenkind daintily attired by the fireside awaiting their return from the chase?

We all have our fancies and ideas as to what is most pleasant and agreeable, and like many things in this world, the key of the situation probably lies in the identity of the lady who hunts.

If she is pretty everyone welcomes her; if the reverse, they wonder “What brings _her_ out?” As Surtees, again, justly remarks, “dishevelled hair, muddy clothes and a ruddy and perspiring face, are more likely to be forgiven to the bloom of youth than to the rugged charms of maturer years.”

Some men think mounting themselves quite as much as they can manage in these hard times, and would rather have a wife looking after the house than tearing across country in hot pursuit of hounds; also (but let us whisper such a terrible suggestion), the lady might have the temerity to ride in front of her lord; and then, indeed, would come the end of all domestic peace and concord.

Most close observers, however, will have noticed that the real good sportswoman is a success in almost every relation of life, for she brings to bear upon the situation both courage, pluck and endurance, learnt amongst a host of other useful and valuable qualities in that best of all schools, “The Hunting Field.”

M. V. WYNTER and C. M. CRESWELL.

Some Theories on Acquiring a Seat.

He is a bold man, indeed, who presumes to write on the art of horsemanship. The very attempt is, as it were, a challenge to a host of critics—some competent, many otherwise, but all blessed with a keen eye to detect the incompetencies of the writer. And though the latter, in warming to his subject, may write with an air of final authority on what he thinks are incontravenable truths, still he is always open to a very different conviction, if only these said critics can contradict him to his own satisfaction. But in the art of horsemanship there is always one great drawback, that only those can thoroughly understand a comprehensive treatise thereon who are, and save the expression, expert themselves. For this reason the writer confines himself to one or two aspects of the art, only at the same time he must confess that if what follows is understood and successfully practised—well, then, the foundations are laid, the walls are built, and the sod before long tumbles naturally into its place.

Now riding is essentially a sleight of hand, and though we may all be clowns to a limited extent, yet no one has achieved the status of a perfect clown without hard work. And so the suggestion is thrown out here that no one ever became a perfect horseman without assiduous practice. On the other hand, no one has achieved the status of a perfect clown—or shall we say acrobat—who is not naturally endowed with certain india-rubber characteristics. And here, again, no one ever became a perfect horseman who was not naturally the possessor of an active and elastic, though not necessarily india-rubber, body. From this we may infer that practise can make a good rider, but that natural bodily activity as well is essential to the making of a first-class rider. It is a misfortune that there is no tyro more jealous of instruction than the tyro in horsemanship.

I have seen so many young riders, and it is they alone who concern me, who have really had latent possibilities, but who, from an original faulty position in the saddle, and, alas, a deaf ear, have not made the progress they should. Still, if they do not listen to the counsels of wisdom, and yet aspire to go straight, they will find sitting astride on their saddle that hard-bitten dame, Experience. She rides with us all. She likes hunting—is seen to play polo, and is known to go racing. Those, therefore, who like to find out all for themselves, can listen indefinitely to this good lady, and so take it first hand.

And now to get to the point, I would say to every tyro, watch carefully all good riders and compare them with yourself, and remember that in your present state of inefficiency you cannot judge for yourself. You must take them on trust.

And here let us marshal what might well be axioms of a textbook on horsemanship, namely:—

(1) That riders are made, not born.

(2) That an active, pliable body is the foundation of horsemanship.

(3) That in as far as the pliable body is born so is the horseman born.

(4) That pliability can be largely developed.

(5) That a really good seat is never seen without really good hands.

(6) That, therefore, hands and seat are an indivisible term.

(7) That a merely stick-fast seat, without ease, is not a good seat, and is always minus hands.

(8) That a really easy seat is a firm seat and goes with hands.

(9) That the really easy seat is due to balance, and balance is due to a correct position and great flexibility.

(10) That a proper grip, _i.e._, a non-fatiguing grip, is founded on balance and not balance on grip.

(11) That a true balance not dependent on grip alone gives a free, quick, strong leg—the mark of a “strong” rider.

(12) That a true balance is founded on a proper length of stirrup, which alone can ensure the rider sitting really on his saddle.

(13) That the true balance, founded on a proper length of stirrup and pliability of body alone, gives the long free reins which is half the problem of hands.

(14) That to ride with too long a stirrup is a very common fault. It means too forward a seat, hence too short a rein, and consequently bad hands.

(15) That to ride with too short a stirrup is an uncommon fault, and only interferes with the hands in as far as it affects security of seat.

(16) That there is little variation between the seats of six first-class horsemen, a great deal between the seats of six secondary horsemen.

And so on with postulates _ad infinitum_, but to tabulate thus may make for lucidity.

Take No. 1. Many hunting men must constantly have seen a useless hand ride himself into a higher sphere of horsemanship, must have seen him by constant practice change from a stiff automaton at variance with his horse into a quick, pliable, strong rider; and Experience has been the mistress. But real experience means riding, firstly, many different horses; secondly, horses nice-tempered, but beyond him; thirdly, unbroken, hot and bad-tempered horses, and last, but not least, a “slug.” No man will learn to really ride if he always rides what he can manage; for that is not experience.

But to make a rider into a first-class man, to make him acquainted with the power of the leg, to teach him how absolutely essential it is, and how the automatic and non-fatiguing use of it alone makes the “strong” rider, and is half the battle in keeping to hounds, check-mating refusers, ensuring a perfect bridling of the horse and getting the uttermost jump out of him at a fence, then let him finish his education, which, by the way, never is finished, by riding a well-bred slug for a whole season on the top of hounds.

The remaining postulates more or less speak for themselves. They are all part of a whole, for it is hard to believe, if a man is to go in unison with his horse, that he can divide his equestrian body into parts. Hands and seats, as the writer understands hands and seats, are one, if horse and rider are to be one.

Take, however, No. 14. What is the chief mechanical fault that lies at the bottom of bad and second-rate horsemanship, the mechanical foundation upon which all the subtleties of horsemanship rear their intricate selves? Unquestionably too long a stirrup. This is the common fault, every potentiality is nullified by it. It is a fatal bar to riding, but, alas, its cure does not necessarily mean horsemanship. It is easy to shorten the stirrup. It is far harder to acquire flexibility; but with too long a stirrup real riding pliability and the hands that accompany it are unattainable. Every good rider must remember the time when he rode with too long a stirrup. He must remember, too, how the gradual shortening was followed by an immediate improvement in his riding, and the greater enjoyment thereof.

Probably he went to the other extreme and used too short a stirrup, and nearly, or perhaps quite, lost his seat.

Now, how is the rider to find a proper length of stirrup? Not, it is quite certain, by an absurd comparative measuring of legs and arms; individual proportions differ. No, it is a matter of experience. It is certain at first to be overdone, or underdone, but there comes a time when a rider can attune his stirrups, according to the difference in the width of horse or size of saddle he bestrides, with automatic readiness.

Now the first sensation of a rider who has been riding too long is that he is now riding too short, and it requires a great deal of firm persuasion on the teacher’s part, and docility on the pupil’s part, to keep him at the proper length.

Now, why does he feel too short and insecure when his double may be rejoicing in the security of the same seat? In the first place, with too long a stirrup he has been relying unduly on their support for his balance. He has also, to negative the action of the horse, been rising far too strongly on them. Now let him watch first-class riders. He will notice that they rise but little in their stirrups, the motion of the horse is mainly taken in an easy motion of the loins and shoulders; and, owing to the fact that they are _sitting on_ the horse and not _standing_ in too long a stirrup, they show but little daylight, and their feet are not dangling toe downwards for a support a good seat does not require.

Let the young rider, then, shorten his stirrups and sit down on his horse. He will gain the rudiments of balance without as yet much grip. For some time he may feel bumpy, insecure—in short, like a man who is trying to float on his back for the first time.

Still it is the only way to acquire the flexible body, and lose the yearning for excessive stirrups. The mere fact that he will at first still sit too much over his shortened stirrups and will try to rise on them as of old, will tend to raise him out of the saddle and give a great sense of insecurity. To lessen this unpleasant feeling, he must for self-protection sit further back, when he will shortly find a balance, this time founded on a real seat. The knees will find themselves where they grip the best. The new position is also in that spot which is best calculated to set up that rhythmic ease of body which not only means hands, but by taking up the motion of the horse reduces rising in the stirrups to a minimum. This will leave the actual seat undisturbed—free to grip, to sit easy, what it will.

It stands to reason the motion of the horse must be transmitted to its rider, but it must not be transmitted to the gripping machinery nor the seat. It must be transmitted to that part of the body best built to bear it, namely, the loins and sliding shoulder blades, which act as springs, buffers, or cushions. It is possible, of course, and in bare-back riding essential, for the loins and shoulder blades to take all the motion and the stirrups none. But the stirrups are there for reasonable assistance only; they are aids, not necessities.

We know if a loose marble was placed against the end of a fixed iron rod, and the other end of the rod was smartly tapped, that the marble would move. In the same way, if we substitute the action of the horse for the tap and the immovable iron bar for the rider’s grip, we shall find in the lively marble the pliable loins and shoulders of a good rider, which are far more seat than that part of the rider which is in actual contact with the horse.