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HAWBUCK GRANGE,

ET C.

CHAPTER I.

CUB-HUNTING.

"Sport in fox-hunting cannot be said to begin before October, but in the two preceding months a pack is either made or marred." -BECKFORD.

"IT was the horn I heard," said Scott, as the old mare again cocked her ears to the wind. "It was the horn I heard, as I came over Addington Hill, though the country looks so green and gay that I never thought of such a thing as hunting."

This exclamation was elicited as, on a fine bright September day, a month in which, according to the usual course of English summers, harvest operations would be about commencing in many parts, Mr. Thomas Scott the hero of this work, whose "pedigree and performances" must work themselves out as we proceed, was taking a quiet ride "across country" to hear how things were going on at the kennel.

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The kennel is a grand summer lounge. Onc is sure to fall in with somebody to talk to; either the huntsman ingratiating himself with his entry, the whip sweeping the yards, or the feeder filling his boiler or scalding his troughs. It is privileged easiness-not idleness, but easiness-for the huntsman can "make off" a pup quite as well in the presence of a stranger as when alone, and the whip is not likely to be put off his work by answering "interrogatories," as our friend Bigbag of the Chancery bar calls his questions, nor the boiler turned from his purpose by listening to our rigmarole. Therefore a man goes to the kennel with the certainty of a smiling reception and a gossip, instead of a gruff "Well, what do

you want?" or or the "I'm particularly busy just now," of the man who, seeing one's approach from his window, mutters to himself, "Here's that confounded Tom Scott coming to bother me with his infernal nonsense. I wish he Ah, Tom, my dear fellow, how are

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Tom was riding his favourite old roan marc, that has carried him safely for ten good seasons, and who knows just as well what she goes out for as he does. She had gone stepping along, with the snaffle bridle rein dangling carelessly on her neck, when, on reaching the summit of the aforementioned hill, she suddenly pricked her ears, giving certain indications of gaiety quite incom

patible with the sober steadiness of pace she had been pursuing.

Mr. Scott no more thought of hearing the horn in September than he did of picking gooseberries at Christmas, or of having a snowball romp in August. Indeed, how should he? Take the summer or no summer of 1845 as a "precedent," as Bigbag would say, and what was he doing in September? Shearing a bit of barley-beginning with the wheat, perhaps and the "tartars" standing so ridiculously green as to look for all the world like next year's crop. The summers of 1845 and 1846 were not in the least like the same thing, neither were the winters. Some masters hardly got any cub-hunting at all in 1845, so late and protracted was the harvest. But, when they did begin hunting, what a season they had! Almost a surfeit-to the short stud ones, certainly a surfeit. We had not had such an carly season as the one of 1846, since Plenipo's" year, when we remember seeing a buck up Doncaster High-street in scarlet and boots on the Leger day. The summer was a roaster; but what a winter followed! That, however, we will deal with as we go on.

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ride

Well, old Barbara was right. At a second blast, her small pointed ears almost touched, and she stood stock still. The spot she chose was worthy the eye of a painter. It was the angle of a road, commanding as well the deep-ribbed Gothic arches of an old stone bridge, as the bend of the rapid

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