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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
Magdalen) and L. E. Jones (Eton and Balliol). Mr. Kirby is a
freshman, who also rowed in the Eton winning eight at Henley last
year, and Mr. Jones an old Blue, who got his colours in 1905.
All these heavy-weights are rowing well and long thus early. They not
only possess great strength, but know how to apply it. Mr. J. Dewar
(Rugby and New College) has been rowing at No. 3 thwart, and
already in capital style, but if Mr. Gladstone remains at No. 7, Mr.
Bailey may supersede the old Rugbeian. Mr. C. H. Illingworth
(Radley and Pembroke) makes a very fine No. 2. He is an old
Radleian captain of boats, who has figured at Henley on many
occasions. The old Blue, R. W. Somers-Smith (Eton and Merton),
and G. M. Graham (Eton and New College), have both been tried at
bow by turns. Mr. Somers-Smith is the more polished oarsman, but
his rival is much more powerful and effective. And, since his
permanent inclusion, he has come on very appreciably.
Mainly composed of old Etonians and old Radleians, this year’s crew
is exceptionally weighty, three of the men scale over 13st., and Mr.
Jones over 14st. Avoirdupois is decidedly a feature, but, even thus
early, they make good use of their weight. Mr. Fletcher has certainly
succeeded in inculcating the theory of the right mode of applying
force. Individually there is not a bad oarsman among them; and
there are no ugly bodies. The blade-work is good, the catch fairly so,
while, on the whole, the stroke is rowed right home with excellent
leg-work. “As a crew,” they are just the one for Putney, if not for
Henley. Perhaps their gravest fault at this stage is a lack of
combination in swing and drive. The slides are used up too soon—
before the hands are fairly into the chest; this makes them rather
short back, and affects the finish. Altogether, however, they are
rapidly developing into “a crew,” and a good one at that. They go to
Henley for a fortnight’s practice within the next day or so, and will be
fully ripe for the change. As the outcome, better uniformity in swing,
sliding, and blade-work—so essential to a fast crew—should speedily
obtain. Given such improvement, they will migrate to Putney about
the middle of the month, distinctly one of the most promising Oxford
eights sent out for many a long year.
In lesser degree, the Cambridge President, Mr. R. V. Powell (Eton
and Third Trinity) has also been confronted with an embarras de
richesses this year; or, rather, he has had to discriminate between a
large number of experienced oarsmen much-of-a-muchness in
calibre. This, of course, has made his task much more difficult. For it
is not enough that the men selected should separately be good, each
must fit into his proper place, or the whole plan may be ruined. Mr.
F. J. Escombe, the famous old Blue and coach, has assisted him from
the first, which has meant a very great deal. Like Mr. Fletcher, he is
nothing if not “observant,” while he is a past-master in the art (for an
art it is) of gauging an oarsman’s real abilities. A lot of changing
about has necessarily been imperative this year, and, as at Oxford,
many notable oarsmen have failed to find places. For some weeks
President Powell himself set the work, but his right place is at No. 6,
by common consent. He is now rowing with remarkable power and
polish at that thwart, and Mr. D. C. R. Stuart (Cheltenham and
Trinity Hall) is at stroke.
This gentleman will be remembered as the famous London Rowing
Club oarsman and sculler, who has figured prominently at Henley
and Putney of recent years. He is not only a strong man physically,
but applies his strength scientifically and keeps a good length. Even
at full racing pace he appears easy to follow. He is admirably backed
up at No. 7 by Mr. E. W. Powell (Eton and Third Trinity), brother to
the president and a freshman this year. While the younger Powell is a
stylist above all things, he puts a lot of power into his work and is
very effective. So also is Mr. B. C. Johnstone (Eton and Third
Trinity), the old Blue and C.U.B.C. Secretary, at No. 5. He and Mr. M.
Donaldson (Charterhouse and First Trinity) at No. 4, are the heavy-
weights of the crew, and splendid specimens of manhood. Both have
improved hand over hand during the last three weeks, and, with
President Powell, are the backbone of the crew. Mr. M. M. Goldsmith
(Sherborne and Jesus) and Mr. J. H. F. Benham (Fauconberge and
Jesus) are rowing at Nos. 3 and 2, respectively, up to date. They
showed promising form in this year’s trial eights, and have gone on
improving subsequently. As generally expected, Mr. G. D. Cochrane
(Eton and Third Trinity), the reserve man last year, is seated at bow.
He has recovered much of his best school form, and works as hard as
any man in the boat. His colours are assured and deserved.
As will be seen, individually, the crew is somewhat heterogeneously
composed. “As a crew,” however, the men have long since settled
down to a very pleasing, effective, and uniform style. Taken
individually, they are as good a set of men in a boat as the Oxonians.
It is collectively that they fail to hit it off so well as their rivals at
present. There is a smart recovery, a fair catch, and a fairly clean
feather in evidence so far. But (by comparison) the less ostentatious
but firmer and more vertical entry of the Oxford oars in the water
produces more lift on the boat and more pace in the long run. A
much improved leg-drive is now observable, but even yet the Cantabs
do not make the best use of their weight. These and other
irregularities will doubtless be rectified “bit by bit”—as Mr. Ashton
Dilke puts it in another direction—as both Mr. Escombe and his
charges are in deadly earnest. They also will migrate to upper
Thames waters within the next day or so. A fortnight’s work on the
livelier Bourne-End reach will do them all the good in the world, and
prepare them gradually for their later Putney experiences. Oxford’s
chances of success appear the rosier at this stage, but there is plenty
of time for Cambridge to equalise matters. Oftener than not the last
few weeks’ practice has sufficed to dash the cup of certainty from the
lips of assurance. Will it this year? Under this heading I may have
something to say to the readers of Baily next month.
W. C. P. F.
 Goose Shooting in Manitoba.

Perhaps there are some of your readers, especially those devoted to

the sport of wildfowling, who may like to have an account of rather a
good day’s sport I enjoyed amongst these birds in a country where
they are very plentiful.
It was a lovely day, early in the fall of the year, that I and a friend
started out from the little town of Boissevain in our four-wheeled
Canadian buggy, bound for Lake Whitewater, some fifteen miles
across the prairie, where we had heard the most wonderful reports of
the countless number of wild geese that frequented it. We were both
armed with 10-bores, as a 12-bore is not very effective against these
birds, owing to the great thickness of the down with which they are
covered. As we drove along through the vast fields of stubble (the
grain having been all cut, threshed, and safely stowed in the vast
elevators by this time) we encountered numerous flocks of prairie
chicken (a bird not unlike a greyhen, and of the grouse tribe), and
managed to secure two or three brace of these birds from the buggy,
the horses not minding the report of the guns at all.
In the distance we could see the shimmer of a large piece of water
surrounded by tall rushes, which we rightly took to be our
destination. It seemed to be only two or three miles away, but as a
matter of fact we still had ten more miles before us. The air was so
wonderfully clear and transparent that we could see the people
walking in the main street of the little town of Whitewater, which
stands at the north shore of the lake from which it takes its name. As
we drew nearer the lake we could hear a noise something like a vast
crowd cheering at a football match, and we both looked at each other
and exclaimed, “Can those really be geese?”
It was now 10 a.m., about the time that the geese return to the lake
after feeding on the stubble since daylight. As far as the eye could
reach (and the country being perfectly flat for miles we could see a
tremendous distance) there were countless flocks of these birds, all
bound for the same destination, each flock in the shape of a triangle,
with a leader. Some flocks must have had from three to five thousand
in them, others only a few hundred, some less. They looked like a
vast army in battle array, some quite white (the Wavey), others of a
darker colour (the Honker), and some were cross-bred, with an
occasional flock of Brants. But they were all too high and out of range
of our guns, so all we could do was to sit there and gaze in open-eyed
amazement at that vast throng, wondering if it could be real, as we
are only accustomed to seeing these birds in singles and pairs in our
native Wales, and then but very seldom. We were now fast
approaching a farmhouse close to the shores of the lake, where we
intended to make our headquarters for the day, and, if necessary,
stay the night, so as to be on the spot for the early morning flight out
on to the feeding ground (generally the best flight of the day). The
owner of the farm, an Englishman, needless to say, received us
hospitably, the more so when he heard we had not forgotten the
demijohn of rye whisky, so much appreciated by the Englishman in
Canada; this is really much better than the average Scotch whisky,
after being kept seven years in bond by the Canadian Government
before it is allowed to be sold.
After lunch we decided that the day was too still to get near the geese,
as they only fly low when there is a wind; so we hid ourselves in the
rushes, the water being up to our middles, and there to wait for any
duck, &c., that should come our way. This belt of rushes, which is
about half a mile broad and surrounds the lake, is noted for all kinds
of duck and teal. In half-an-hour I counted six different kinds,
including Mallard, Pintail, Canvass Back, Grey Duck, Blue- and
Green-winged Teal, and I managed to secure five of the latter; but
they are very hard to find when dropped in the thick rushes. By six
we had each shot a score of ducks and my friend had also a snipe to
his credit, so we trekked back to the farm to supper, and after
turning to with the milking, &c. (or “chores,” as they are pleased to
call all small jobs round the house, and I believe the word is derived
from the French word choses) we had a pipe and a glass of grog and
turned in, as we had to be up by 4 a.m. the next morning. For a long
time I lay awake listening to the “honk, honk” of the geese returning
to the lake, till at last they settled down for the night, and all was still
except for the croaking of the frogs.
By 4.30 next morning we were lying in the long grass on the shore of
the lake, opposite a large sand-bank, on which we could dimly see
dusky forms stalking about. There was a stiff breeze from the north,
and everything augured well for our day’s sport, if only they would
come low enough and in our direction. Gradually the sun rose like a
golden ball in the east and the birds seemed to be getting uneasy. All
at once there were shrill cries, and we knew the morning flight had
begun. My heart was beating like a sledgehammer, as I had never yet
shot a goose.
We had both taken the precaution to bring cartridges loaded with
No. 1 shot, and I had also a few loaded with B.B. shot, as they were
said to be more effective.
I raised myself gently on my elbows, and peeping over the top of the
grass, I saw thousands upon thousands of grey and white forms
circling in the air above the sand-bank. The noise by this time was
deafening, and although we were only lying twenty yards apart we
could not hear each other speak. The noise suddenly seemed to grow
louder, and looking up I saw a large flock making straight for the
spot where we were lying, and only about forty yards high. We
crouched lower and lower and waited breathlessly. The leader was a
large white Wavey, and I made up my mind to have him somehow.
Just as he got directly over my head I turned on my back, and let
drive both barrels at him. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, the
whole flock being thrown into confusion, and then he gradually
fluttered down almost on my head. I rushed upon him for fear he
should escape, and after wringing his neck madly, I danced a pas de
seul round him for some minutes, quite forgetful of the hundreds of
geese streaming over my head. But my friend recalled me to my
senses quickly, and in language not quite parliamentary told me to
lie down again and not be a fool. So I got down in the grass again on
my back just as another flock came over, and out of which we got
four apiece: it being a large flock we had time to reload and get in
two barrels at the tail end. The great object is to shoot the leader, and
that throws the whole flock into confusion, and you secure more time
to reload, as they never go on till they have chosen another leader.
An American told me a yarn of a countryman of his that used to ride
along on horseback under the flock killing off the leader time after
time, until he had exterminated the whole flock, but I give you this
for what it is worth.
It was now about 5.30 a.m., and they were coming over us in one
long stream all the time, evidently following the same flight which
the first flock had taken, which I believe is their general custom.
By the time the last flock had disappeared on the horizon there were
fourteen dead geese lying on the grass around us, and five wounded
birds had flown back to the lake to die. A farmer living on the north
shore of the lake told me he always went out directly the lake froze
up and gathered in all the wounded geese that had been unable to fly
and got frozen in with the ice. He said he often got from forty to fifty
in this way.
By this time we were getting very stiff with the long wait, and were
very glad to get up to stretch our legs, and congratulate each other on
our excellent luck that the flight should just have come in our
direction and within range.
We heard afterwards that more than a dozen sportsmen (amongst
whom were two well-known Wall Street brokers who had travelled
2,000 miles for a week’s sport at this well-known Eldorado for
wildfowlers) had that day lined the west shore with the hope of their
taking that course, and they never saw a goose all day.
We now began to wonder how we were going to get our bag back to
the farm, about a mile and a half distant, as fourteen geese are no
light weight, and they were all fine fat birds (the stubble holding lots
of feed for them that year, the crop having been a good one).
Eventually we tied them all round our shoulders and waists and thus
managed to stagger back to the farm, quite ready for our breakfast.
After breakfast we hitched up the horses, and bidding our host
farewell, leaving him a few geese for his trouble, we started on our
fifteen miles back to the little town of Boissevain. It was one of those
glorious mornings with a lovely deep blue sky overhead that one only
sees in North America at this time of year. We saw numerous flocks
of prairie chicken, and added three brace of these birds to our bag.
At 12.30 we pulled up before the hotel from which we had started
two days before, and were received with eager enquiries as to what
luck we had had, or whether we had returned because the whisky had
run out. Thus ended my first experience of goose shooting, and I
have often wondered since why people use the expression “a silly
goose,” for nobody could ever accuse a wild goose of being at all
stupid.
In case any of your readers should ever find themselves in the
neighbourhood of this lake I will try to give them some particulars of
its situation and the best time of year to go there.
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.
The foregoing, then, is the secret of a firm seat and an easy one.
From such a seat spring fine hands, long reins, and the whole bag of
subtle tricks, which are otherwise, to mix one’s metaphors, a closed
book. In the above it should have been said that it is taken for
granted the rider rides “home” in the stirrup. Few real horsemen ride
otherwise, except in hacking. Using the stirrup in a limited degree,
they prefer to have it where it requires no attention, and is not liable
to be lost. It would mean a hole longer in the leathers, and of course
a rider can ride that way. But where a rider says he rides thus for the
sake of the spring it is a confession at once of too long a stirrup and
inferior riding. He is dependent on his stirrup a great deal too much.
His stirrup is taking far too much of that motion which should be
finding expression in the motion of the body. The leg, that is to say, is
doing a duty which has very little to do with it. It cannot, therefore,
properly discharge its own, which, as a free member, independent of
seat, is to squeeze and encourage the horse at will.
A toe in the stirrup, then, is often, but not always, an indication of
too long a stirrup, resulting in bad hands and all its host of attendant
evils.
X. Y. Z.
 “Our Van.”

RACING.

Quite a fillip, which was very welcome, was given to racing under
National Hunt Rules during the week which included the last days of
January and the first days of February. Gatwick began it, and, with
two stakes of £500 each, and the minimum of £100 only once not
reached, success was well deserved. One doubts whether much profit
can accrue from a meeting run on these liberal lines in winter. The
meeting had been brought forward from March with the view of
steering clear of the whirlpool which, later on, draws everything that
can jump into the Grand National. The experiment must be deemed
successful, for horses were numerous on each of the two days, whilst
the public turned up in good numbers in anticipation of sport that
was not denied them. One felt almost as though attending at a
revival, so mediocre and tame had been much of the racing earlier in
the jumping season. On the first day the chief item was the Tantivy
Steeplechase, and in this the five-year-old Sachem, who had shown
ability over hurdles, winning two hurdle races at the Sandown Park
December Meeting, one of them the Grand Annual Hurdle Handicap,
came out as a steeplechaser for the first time in public. He did so
with conspicuous success, for he was carrying 11st. 10lb. and won in
excellent style. By far too many people knew that he had been
fencing in good form at home for the price about him to be long, and
only the presence of Rathvale prevented him from starting favourite.
On the second day came the International Hurdle Handicap, and in
this Isinglass’ son, Leviathan, did well by carrying home 11st. 12lb. to
victory.
Kempton Park followed on in the same liberal style, and met the
same degree of success. The £500 race on the first day was the
Middlesex Hurdle race, in which that expensive purchase, Sandboy,
who had won a couple of hurdle races, was running, weighted the
same as The Chair. The last-named always had the foot of Sandboy,
being sent on a pace-making mission which he carried out with such
effect as to lead to within twenty strides of the post. A sudden dash
by Therapia, however, gave her the race by a neck; and whether the
rider of The Chair was caught napping is a question upon which no
agreement is likely to come about. On the second day, John M.P.
created a great impression by the way he won the Coventry Handicap
Steeplechase, named after the Earl of Coventry, carrying 12st. 2lb.
The way he strode along and jumped made one think of Aintree, but
two miles over ordinary fences is a very different story to four and a
half miles of the Grand National staggerers. If John M.P. proves to
be a genuine stayer, then he must have a great chance. The only
previous outing this season of John M.P. was a hurdle-race under
12st. 7lb.
Sandown came in for some icy weather for its February Meeting.
Over the three miles of the Burwood Steeplechase Ranunculus did a
very smooth performance, but had nothing to push him, much less
beat him. In winning the Sandown Grand Prize, a Handicap Hurdle
Race, under 12st. 7lb., Rassendyl showed himself improved out of all
knowledge, and scored his fourth consecutive win out of four times
out. Mr. Stedall is persevering enough to deserve a good one now and
then.
At Hurst Park the next week a splendid entry was obtained for the
Open Steeplechase, but the race fizzled out to a field of three, and of
these Kirkland was as fat as the proverbial pig, though looking
extremely well. John M.P. gained a very easy win from Desert Chief,
who, besides chancing his fences in a way that spells grief at Aintree,
altogether failed to get three miles.
It is not unlikely that some clerks of courses will, in the future, make
a slight alteration in the distance of some of their handicap
steeplechases, so as to escape the action of the new conditions for the
Grand National, one of which penalises a winner of a handicap
steeplechase over a distance exceeding three miles 6 lb. extra.
Winners of any two steeplechases of three miles or over are penalised
4lb.
HUNTING.

For the sport of the month past we have nothing but praise. It has
been one of those months which live in the memory of hunting
people. The principal chases of which we have to write are notable
alike for pace and for duration, the Cottesmore on three consecutive
weeks having enjoyed runs which were of the kind which for want of
a better word we must call “old-fashioned,” in that they lasted over
an hour and covered a great variety of country.
I may repeat here, because it is a remark which cannot be gainsaid,
and is not without its moral, that those countries have much the best
sport which have the largest stock of foxes. The reasons for this are
clear and I think easy to see on reflection, that where foxes are
numerous hounds have plenty of blood, and there is a wider field for
natural selection in improving the breed of foxes. Sport, as might be
expected, steadily improves as the season goes on, the bad foxes are
weeded out, and their places are often taken by more mature animals
from other countries. Whether foxes are or are not bred in a covert it
will never want foxes if suitable in the shelter and food it affords. The
best of the Cottesmore runs which must be placed on record, was the
one from Prior’s Coppice on Tuesday, January 23rd. There have been
longer points and straighter runs than this, but none where a better
pace was sustained over a beautiful but not easy country for a
prolonged time.
Many days have threatened fog or frost in the mornings, and yet have
been pleasant enough before the day was over. So it was on January
23rd. The morning fog was cold and discouraging. How true is
Whyte Melville’s saying, that “Courage is a question of caloric.”
Prior’s Coppice was reached, and though hounds left some at least of
their followers at a disadvantage, yet when once clear of the covert it
was clear that hounds were bending left handed. By the time Cole’s
Lodge was reached the pack had started to hunt at a good pace, and
the field were in their places. Those who had galloped to reach
hounds had now to sit down to ride to keep with the pack. A slight
turn helped. Then came a climb that made one feel the advantage of
after-Christmas condition. Before Christmas a horse that had
climbed the Hog’s Back would have needed a pull, now we can ask
him to gallop freely.
The fox worked as if Wardley Wood was his point, but his strength
began to fail, and he turned away before he crossed the road. Hounds
swung round with him, and it was the pressure they exercised that
defeated him. Now he began to turn and twist, but still keeping out of
the way of hounds in the most gallant fashion. He was actually in the
brook with the hounds, and at last crawled into Manton Gorse, from
which he came out to die. An hour and three quarters of the best
country, and at a pace that found out the weak points of many
horses. Those who rode it fairly on one horse knew that they had to
quote Whyte Melville once more, “not merely a good hunter, but a
good horse.”
To find any run equal to this we have to go back to the Pytchley hunt
after a meet at Weedon Barracks, on Friday, January 12th. In this
case hounds hunted a fox which has, it is believed, run before them
once at least before this season. This great hunt lasted at least for two
hours, and there was just that amount of difficulty and hindrance for
followers in the early stages that enabled hounds to settle down to
their work. There was much heavy going, too; horses began to stop
before, near Ashby Ledgers, hounds on the grass began to run away
from them. Near Daventry wire cut the huntsman off from hounds,
and with a beaten fox crawling in front hounds lost him after all.
The best Wednesday was at Yelvertoft. The fox an out-lier, hounds
laid on in a grass field over which the fox had run a minute or two
before. Fences that held up the boldest, while hounds settled down,
made a hunt a certainty. There were a good many casualties at the
flooded streams.
Never touching a covert and running fairly straight hounds ran on by
Naseby Covert; there were two lines here, and hounds no doubt took
up the fresh one. An eight-mile point in an hour tells of a first-rate
hunting run. Another half-hour and the fox that intervened paid the
penalty with his life. One of the great events of the hunting season is
the Quorn Hunt Ball. This year more than 300 people gathered in
the Corn Exchange at Melton, a gathering which included hunting
people from many parts of the world and all parts of England. It
often happens that show days are below the average of the sport
usually shown. But Captain Forester, who was hunting the hounds,
was fortunate in finding a fox which, if it made no great point,
showed to the visitors a fine selection of the famous riding grounds
of the Quorn hunt.
The fixture after the ball, on Friday, February 2nd, was at Egerton
Lodge, which has been with so many generations the social centre of
the hunting world. This was appropriate, and so was the drawing of
the Hartopp coverts at Gartree Hill, and the visit of the fox to the
Punch Bowl, his timely excursion over the Burton Flats, which is,
perhaps, to the stranger the simplest form of Leicestershire. After
running through Adam’s Gorse the fox led the visitors into an almost
perfect region of grass and fences.
Altogether it was a day of which one could remark that anyone who
rode the line faithfully would have a fair idea of what hunting with
the Quorn meant.
On Saturday, February 3rd, Tom Bishopp once more carried the
horn after being laid by with influenza. The Normanton Hill coverts
held a traveller. For an hour and forty minutes hounds drove their
fox over a country which is for Leicestershire rather given over to
arable. But scent and a fairly straight line helped them, and when the
end came at Broughton Station they were nearly eleven miles from
their starting point, and had been going for an hour and three
quarters. Thus the pace must have been good. This was the
straightest run of the whole week if we except the Duke of Beaufort’s
two gallops after meeting at Cherrington on February 2nd in the
Tetbury country. Hounds dashed away for four miles. They were
stopped and brought back. A third fox proved equally good, for he
led them right away into the choicest of the V.W.H., the followers
enjoying a variety of fencing, beginning with stone walls, and
including the rough hedges sometimes set on banks, and the wide
ditches of the vale country. The Duke’s country and the V.W.H. ride
deep in wet weather, but they also carry a scent under such
conditions. Hounds had come some nine miles in a direct line before
they turned and came back by Charlton Park. But in point of distance
the run of the month was in the remote district of East Cornwall,
where hounds are hunted by Mr. Connock Marshall, and Mr.
Philpotts Williams controls the field. It was in Torr Brake the fox was
found, and a ring was worked out without any extraordinary
promise. On leaving the covert again the scent improved, and from
that point onwards hounds were well served. Even supposing, of
which there is no certainty, that they came away from Torr the
second time with a fresh fox, it was a marvellous run and a wonderful
instance of endurance for fox and hounds. It was not till two hours
and a half were over that hounds began to run for blood, and near
Berry Tor the leaders caught a view, and ran into a most gallant fox
that struggled to the very last. It is said that twenty-five miles was
covered as hounds ran, and if this is correct the pace was fast, as the
run lasted under two hours and three-quarters from find to finish.
The Woodland Pytchley had what may be described rather as a very
excellent day’s hunting (on Feb. 5th) than as a great run. They were
stopped at the end of five hours, having been hunting all the time.
But there were several changes, how many it would be difficult to
say, since such fox-haunted coverts as Rushton, Pipewell, Brampton,
and Dingley Warren, were some of the coverts visited during the day.
It was a remarkable performance for the hounds, and, like the run
last mentioned, speaks volumes for the kennel management of the
pack.
Staghounds have, like the foxhounds, had a capital month. Mr.
Stanley brought off a notable performance on the Brendon Hills. He
found a hind, and hunted her for four hours with a moderate scent.
The hounds worked well, and their admirable condition carried them
through. But we know, of course, that much in these cases depends
on the combination of patience and promptness in the man who
hunts them. The point was that there was no change in spite of the
danger of this on the moorland at this time of year. That the chase of
the carted deer has some points of resemblance with that of their
wild kindred, is shown by the experience of the Surrey Staghounds
when visiting the Kentish side of their country. They had two
admirable runs, and in both the quarry ran into herds of park deer,
the second one having to be left in Knole Park after a fine chase of
two and a half hours. It seems as if there was no limit to the powers
of a red deer hind in the winter, so that as the old huntsman used to
say, “She can run so long as she have a mind to.”
The changes among masters which January brings are not very
numerous. None of the leading hunts are vacant, and some of those
which were in want of new masters have succeeded in finding them.
The latest resignations are from Hampshire, where Mr. F. L.
Swindell and Mr. Yorke Scarlett are resigning the Hursley and the
Tedworth. In no county are shooting and hunting more likely to clash
than in Hampshire. Moreover, the county is a difficult one to hunt,
yet the various packs, including the Hambledon, the H.H., and the
Vine have had a good season on the whole. No doubt the plentiful
rain has helped to bring about this result. But good masters and
huntsmen such as Hampshire has throughout its hunting history had
quite its share of having helped this result greatly. Mr. Long, the
grandson of a former master of the Hambledon, will, it is said, take
the Hursley. In the north Mr. J. B. Pease succeeds Mr. Alec Browne
with the Percy. In the Midlands, Sir J. Hume Campbell buys Mr.
McNeill’s famous bitch pack with which to hunt North Cotswold, to
the great satisfaction of the country. Among huntsmen the changes
are neither few nor unimportant. It is said that Gosden will leave the
Meynell; it is certain that John Isaac retires from the Pytchley after
twenty-six years of faithful and efficient service with that pack. He
will be succeeded by Frank Freeman, a son of the Will Freeman
whom I recollect with the South and West Wilts. Gillson, a son of
George Gillson of the Cottesmore, who has been hunting the last-
named pack with great success, is to follow Freeman in the Bedale
country. I can recollect him a mere lad as second whipper-in to
Shepherd, so long with the South Oxfordshire. Gillson has not
forgotten, I dare say, the queer-tempered horse he used to ride, and
the kicking matches which, though unpleasant when he wanted to
turn hounds, no doubt helped to make him the horseman he is.
The death of Charles Littleworth, formerly huntsman to the fifth Earl
of Portsmouth, removes from hunting circles one of the best judges
of foxhounds and terriers, and a most admirable woodland
huntsman. Of those I have known in a lengthening experience none
were better than the late Lord Macclesfield and Charles Littleworth
at hunting a fox in strong woodlands. Both, I think, liked a big dog-
hound for the work. The blood of the Eggesford kennels, as it was in
Lord Portsmouth’s time, runs in the veins of many of the best packs
of the present day, the Badminton and the Four Burrow each owing
something to the Eggesford kennel. Then the famous pack with
which Sir Richard Glyn and John Press hunted the Blackmore Vale
owed much to the lucky cross of the Portsmouth Commodore with
Mr. Villebois’ Matchless. But this is too large a subject for such notes
as these. As a breeder of working terriers Charles Littleworth had no
superior and few equals, as those who have had the luck to own one
of his strain will bear witness.
The death of Lady Howe removes one who as a sportswoman stood
among the first. It is only as a rider to hounds that I have to write of
her in these columns. It has been my good fortune to see all the
leading riders to hounds of the last twenty years, and among them
there was none better than Lady Georgiana Curzon. It used to be said
that there were five ladies who stood out as riders to hounds, and the
late Lady Howe was one of the best of these.

HUNTING IN YORKSHIRE.

We have had an open January, hounds having only missed an odd

day here and there, and it is not till the day that these notes are
written that we have had any real wintry weather, though for a few
days previous keen northeasterly winds and flying showers of hail
and sleet have shown that there was frost and snow coming. Should
the stoppage be a short one, sport will undoubtedly benefit, and
there will be a good tale to tell in the April number of Baily. Sport,
on the whole, has not been great since I last wrote, though there have
been a few runs which stand out, notably a moorland run with the
Cleveland, in which a good point was made and a lot of difficult
country covered. Before proceeding, however, with a record of the
sport, some coming changes should be referred to. Fred Freeman,
who leaves the Bedale, will hunt the Pytchley next season, and I am
told that his uncle, Dick Freeman, who has shown such excellent
sport in the North Durham country for so many years, will retire at
the end of the season. An item of news which will please all his many
friends is that Tom Smith, of the Bramham Moor, has returned from
his short visit to Blackpool fully restored to health.
Lord Fitzwilliam’s had a famous day’s sport on Wednesday, January
10th, when they met at the Oaks, Norton, on the Derbyshire side of
their country. In Whenacre they found a strong show of foxes and
hounds divided, one lot running by Sicklebrook to Troway, where
they marked their fox to ground. With this lot were Bartlett and the
bulk of the field. The other lot ran through the Norton Coverts, and
turning to the right from Gleadless Toll Bar, they rattled on to
Hazelhurst, where Bartlett came up with the rest of the pack, and
they ran on at a good pace past Lightwood to Charnock Hall. Some
foot people on the hill headed the fox and brought hounds to their
noses, and they hunted slowly down the valley and through the Royal
Wood, where they worked up to their fox, and rolled him over near
Ford, after a fine hunting run of an hour and a half. A capital forty-
five minutes from Hanging Lea by Hackenthorpe Church and Birley
Spa, and the Beighton Gorse to Beighton Village, where they marked
their fox to ground, made up a good day’s sport.
The Bramham Moor had some fine hunting in the cream of their
country on Friday, January 12th, when they met at Hutton Hall.
There was a brace of foxes in Hutton Thorns, with one of which they
went away to Collier Haggs with a rare rattle, but the fun was soon
over, for he went to ground near where they met. The other fox was
viewed at Marston Village, and Smith went to the hollow. Of course
he was a long way ahead, but hunting with the perseverance for
which they are so famous, hounds hunted him slowly back to Hutton
Thorns and over the Marston Road, and a couple of wide rings round
to Hutton Thorns again, where he beat them. They ran a second fox
from White Syke Whin, leaving Wilstrop Wood on the right, up to
Skewkirk Bridge, and along the Nidd Banks for half a mile, where
hounds were stopped, as the fox had crossed the river into the York
and Ainsty country.
They had another good day on Thursday, January 18th, when they
met at Deighton Bar, the day of the fixture being changed on account
of the Barkston Ash election. They had rather a long draw for the
country, for they did not find till they got to Igmanthorpe Willow
Garth. They ran hard by Bickerton and Minster Hagg up to the
Cowthorpe and Tockwith road, where the first check took place.
Hitting off the line over the road, they ran down to the Nidd, which
they crossed midway between Cattail Bridge and Hunsingore. No
sooner had they crossed the river than they recrossed it, and they
hunted down the banks of the Nidd with a failing scent to Thornville
Old Hall. Thence they swung round in the direction of Tockwith, and
finally were run out of scent between Minster Hagg and Bickerton. A
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