Mr. Punch in the Hunting Field Part 7

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Benevolent Stranger._ "Allow me, sir, to offer you a drink!"

_Unfortunate Sportsman_ (_just out of brook_). "Thanks; but I've had a drop too much already!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MAGIC WORD

_Huntsman_ (_having run a fox to ground, to yokel_). "Run away down and get some o' your fellows to come up with spades, will ye? Tell 'em we're after hidden treasure!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A CAPITAL DODGE

Among his native banks Old Poddles takes a lot of beating. He says there's nothing easier when you know how to negotiate 'em.]

HUNTING EXTRAORDINARY

Jobson, who edits a cheerful little weekly, said to me the other day:

"You hunt, don't you?"

I looked at him knowingly. Jobson interpreted my smile according to his preconceived idea.

"I thought so," he continued.

"Well, you might do me a bright little article--about half a column, you know--on hunting, will you?"

Why should I hesitate? Jobson is safe for cash; and he had not asked me to give my own experiences of the hunting field. I replied warily, "I fancy I know the sort of thing you want."

"Good," he said, and before we could arrive at any detailed explanation he had banged the door and dashed downstairs, jumped into his hansom and was off.

This was the article:-

THOUGHTS ON HUNTING.

It is hardly possible to overrate the value of hunting as a National sport. Steeplechasing is a Grand-National sport, but it is the sport of the rich, whereas hunting is not. By judiciously dodging the Hunt Secretary, you can, in fact, hunt for nothing. Of course, people will come at me open-mouthed for this a.s.sertion, and say, "How about the keep of your horses?" To which I reply, "If you keep a carriage, hunt the carriage horse; if you don't, borrow a friend's horse for a long ride in the country, and accidentally meet the hounds." To proceed. This has been a season of poor scent. Of course, the horses of the present day have deteriorated as line hunters: they possess not the keen sense of smell which their grandsires had. But despite this the sport goes gaily on. There are plenty of foxes--but we cannot agree with the popular idea of feeding them on poultry. And yet, in every hunt, we see hunters subscribing to poultry funds. This is not as it should be: Spott's meat biscuit would be much better for foxes' food.

But these be details: let us hie forrard and listen to the cheery voice of sly Reynard as he is winded from his earth. The huntsman blows his horn, and soon the welkin rings with a chorus of bra.s.s instruments; the tufters dash into covert, and anon the cheerful note of _Ponto_ or _Gripper_ gives warning that a warrantable fox is on foot--well, of course, he couldn't be on horseback, but this is merely a venatorial _facon de parler_. Away go the huntsmen, showing marvellous dexterity in cracking their whips and blowing their horns at the same moment. Last of all come the hounds, trailing after their masters--ah, good dogs, you cannot hope to keep up very far with the swifter-footed horses!

Nevertheless, they strain at their leashes and struggle for a better place at the horses' heels. "Hike forrard! tally ho! whoo-hoop!" They swoop over the fields like a charge of cavalry. But after several hours'

hard running a check is at hand: the fox falters, then struggles on again, its tail waving over its head. As its pursuers approach, it rushes up a tree to sit on the topmost branch and crack nuts.

The panting horses arrive--some with their riders still in the saddle, though many, alas! have fallen by the wayside. Next come the hounds, at a long interval--poor _Fido_, poor _Vic_, poor _Snap_! you have done your best to keep up, but the horses have out-distanced you! The whipper-in immediately climbs the tree in which the little red-brown animal still peacefully cracks its nuts, its pretty tail curled well over its head. Its would-be captor carries a revolving wire cage, and, by sleight-of-hand movement, manages to get the quarry securely into it.

Then he descends, places the cage in a cart and it is driven home.

The "mort" is sounded by four green velvet-coated huntsmen, with horns wound round their bodies; a beautiful brush presented to the lady who was first up at the "take"; and then the field slowly disperse. Tally Ho-Yoicks! all is over for the day.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MANNERS IN THE FIELD

Always be prepared to give the lead to a lady, even at some little personal inconvenience.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PLEASURES OF HUNTING

Having been cannoned and nearly brought down, to be asked if you are trying the American seat.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: HUNTING SKETCH

The Cast Shoe, or Late for the Meat.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A KINDLY VIEW OF IT

_First Rustic_ (_to Second Ditto_). "Oh, I say! Ain't he fond of his horse!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _M.F.H._ "Hold hard! Hold hard, please!! Where _are_ you going with that brute?"

_Diana_ (_plaintively_). "I wish I knew!"]

THE LAST DAY OF HUNTING

(_Stanzas for the First of April_)

Right day to bid a long farewell To the field's gladsome glee; To hang the crop upon its peg, The saddle on its tree.

All Fools' the day, all Fools' the deed, That hunting's end doth bring-- With all those stinking violets, And humbug of the Spring!

Good-bye to pig-skin and to pink, Good-bye to hound and horse!

The whimpering music sudden heard From cover-copse and gorse; The feathering stems, the sweeping ears, The heads to scent laid low, The find, the burst, the "Gone-away!"

The rattling "Tally-ho!"

My horses may eat off their heads, My huntsman eat his heart; My hounds may dream of kills and runs In which they've borne their part, Until the season's bore is done, And Parliament set free, And cub-hunting comes back again To make a man of me!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "A-HUNTING WE WILL GO!"

_Lady._ "You're dropping your fis.h.!.+"