But the partridges are “calling” all around, and a covey actually passes over your head.  Your sporting instincts begin to revive, and you take up your gun and proceed to stalk that covey, stealing round under a wall.  Then you suddenly remember that the V.W.H. hounds meet in your village to-morrow, and you begin wondering whether they will once again find the great dog fox that several times last season led you over the wide, open country that now lies mapped out before you. Your fox, too, one of a litter you came upon two springs ago, in a little spinney not half a mile from where you are standing now, stub-bred and of the greyhound stamp, fleet of foot and lithe of limb.  Each time the hounds had come to draw he was at home in the covert on the brow of the hill which shelters the old manor house you inhabit from the cold blast of winter.  Here he loved to dwell, and hunt moorhens and dabchicks and water-rats all night long by the banks of silvery Coln.  But on three occasions within six weeks, no sooner did the hounds enter the wood than a shrill scream proclaimed him away on the far side.  You were mounted on a good horse, and were away as soon as the pack.  And then for thirty minutes the “old customer” cantered away over those broad pastures, hounds and horses tearing after him on a breast-high scent, but never gaining an inch of ground.  Two leagues were quickly traversed ere yonder distant belt of trees was reached, where the dry leaves lay rotting on the ground, and there was not an atom of scent.  So he saved his life, and the tired, mud-bespattered sportsmen vow that there never was such a run seen before, so thrilling is the ecstasy of “pace” and so enchanting the stride of a well-bred horse.

’Tis a wild, deserted tract of country that stretches from Cirencester right away to the north of Warwickshire.  For fifty miles you might gallop on across those undulating fields, and meet no human being on your way.  We have ridden forty miles on end along the Fosseway, and, save in the curious half-forsaken old towns of Moreton-in-the-Marsh and Stow-on-the-Wold, we scarcely met a soul on the journey.  What a marvellous work was that old Roman Fosseway!  Raised high above the level of the adjoining fields, it runs literally “as straight as an arrow” through the heart of the grassy Midlands.  And what a rare hunting country it passes through!  We saw but one short piece of barbed wire in our journey of over forty miles.  Now that farming is no longer remunerative, the whole country seems to be given up to hunting.  Depend upon it, it is this sport alone that circulates money through this deserted land.

Time was when the uplands of Gloucestershire were almost entirely under the plough, when good scenting days seldom gladdened the heart of the hunting man, and when, in a ride over the Cotswold tableland, the excitement of a fast gallop on grass was an impossibility.  Those were the days when land at thirty shillings an acre was eagerly sought after and the wheat crop amply repaid those who cultivated it.  Now, alas! farms are to be had for the asking, rent free; but nobody will take them, and the country is rapidly going back to its original uncultivated state.  The farmer, nevertheless, does not lose heart.