you," with hats raised, is shouted from almost every huntsman is proof of both manners and motives, the latter forgotten in the cordiality of the farmer.

One hard-riding master of Virginia, in an open letter addressed at the close of the season to the farmers and land-owners of Loudoun County, remarks:

"The hounds run to kill the fox and my place is behind them, and if at any time I have seemed rude by not stopping to pass a pleasant word or two it was simply because my duty was ahead, and for such apparent rudeness I now offer apology. Time, tide, and a pack of hounds wait for no man."

A final quality developed in the crosscountry man who is quickly initiated into the school of hard knocks is complaisancy to bear and initiative to avoid the traps and pitfalls which beset him. The huntsman and whips are ever taking risks to live with their hounds, pressing into the unknown and frequently making a line where horse and man have never been. The field which follows have also to think it out, each for himself, a man's gray matter divided between his own needs and those of his horse, who often requires more than nature allowed him, his first thought being rather to keep up than any intelligent consideration for either himself or rider. When the crash comes as to many a hunter it does once or twice a season, when stirrups, breast-plate, reins, mane, and finally, an arm-clutch of the neck have all been tried without avail, the last resource is to fall like a drunken man limply into one's hat and roll for all he is worth. The fitness which a hunting man attains may be known when it is possible for one nearer sixty than fifty to fall headlong, as the writer has seen, over a stone wall and onto a rocky New England road and to his question, "Are you hurt?" jump up and reply, "Not a bit."

How many men of that age, without this hardening discipline, could have survived and turned up at the club dinner with no other concern than that his wife should not hear of it.

The position of master is filled with anxieties making it one which deserves every consideration accorded it. Like the shepherd of old the good master has watched and coddled every dog bred in the kennels, calling each by name. He likewise bears his field on his mind, especially if his be a drag

hunt, and must decide on the safety of a day whether too hard or too greasy for safe jumping. Furthermore, the good master goes over his drag, carefully safeguarding the hazards and diligently ridding both takeoff and landing of all pitfalls which might ruin the pleasure of a run. In the Massachusetts country his trials increase, for the stony pastures give the riders all the anxiety a quick flight across the country should have; but what lies on the far side of a stone wall should not be a subject for dread, and it is no unusual sight to see at the drag hunts of Norfolk and Myopia, the master with his whips on the day before the run clearing these places of loose rock or wire.

At Myopia, Mr. Mandell, the master, has succeeded in rendering parts of his country so fit as to be safe enough for the youngsters. A pony drag during July and August has become one of the institutions of the club and a prettier sight could scarce be found among the hunt clubs of America than the large field of boys and girls, from eight to eighteen years of age, bowling along over stone walls and hedges, following a slow drag and experiencing all the thrills of their elders in the chase.

Two or three mammas are usually present and a mounted groom or two to pick up hats and open gates, or when necessary catch a horse and find its owner. All the safety devices for saddles and breast-plates are in evidence and the master, far ahead with his hounds, has little concern for what is happening behind him.

The popularity of the sport depends indeed so much upon the master, that when one is found who really fills this post of honor he is held there by acclamation and frequently against his protest.

Let no one suppose the killing of the quarry is an important part of fox-hunting. Experience in due time makes this clear. In fact, the fox-hunter is probably the happiest hunter in the world and largely because he seldom kills. He looks elsewhere for his recompense and by his failure the mind becomes philosophical, dissecting the whole situation and disclosing the means to be in reality the desideratum, the true and enjoyable end.

The new member who has swapped his roadster for a hunter, takes a few lessons over the bars at a riding-school, sits up late with Mr. Jorrocks and Whyte Melville, has

With Reynard "gone to earth "after ten or fifteen miles, the field assembles. Page 515.

the "lingo" at his tongue's end, and cherishes a secret ambition to "die with his boots on"; begins to think he has been defrauded when, after the first half-dozen runs, he jogs home with the hunt, emptyhanded. The vision of eventually having a trophy hung up in his den gradually fades away. He believes the hounds are not bred right, that his gallant efforts at the risk of life and limb are misplaced energy and he considers his next move may be to swap the hunter for an electric, when suddenly the light breaks and he agrees that it is not necessary, after all, that something should die in order to make him happy. In fact, the respect he begins to entertain for the little animal that can outwit a pack of hounds, the huntsman, two whips, and a master and keep on top of earth while all these and a score of riders are seeking his life, is such that he gladly gives him his bill of health and a godspeed when he either throws off the hunt completely or seeks asylum.

With Reynard "gone to earth" after ten or fifteen miles, the field assembles, girths are loosened, cigarettes produced, the incidents of the run discussed and everybody appears satisfied. The leisurely jog home is the relaxing anti-climax. The keen clarion note from

the hunting horn, heard long before the field may be seen, is waited for by the club chef, who has his meats broiling and everything in readiness when the field appears.

This in time comes to mean a complete experience to the average fox-hunter. But for the occasional "blooding" of the pack, the far-sighted master prefers to save his foxes. He knows almost to a certainty where he may find this one or that; he learns in time, pretty nearly, how any particular fox will run, at least, at the start; indeed, he is on such good terms with some of them as to furnish names the more easily to communicate their prospective manœuvres.

The "public" has a short and vexed notion of fox-hunting. They denominate it a cruel sport and ridicule the sight of a troupe of men and women chasing to its death a defenseless little creature with a pack of hounds. As a fact, however, the American red fox feels himself so fitted for the conditions that he accepts a challenge with evident relish. That he enjoys a run there can be no reason to deny. Like a good general he usually seeks a vantage point and looks over the field. He listens and observes and when satisfied drops leisurely from the fence-post or rock and trots away.