Our fox has run the road for a quarter of a mile.  This manoeuvre has probably saved his life, for it has given him time to get his breath back.  In addition to this, the instant Reynard turned down wind the scent changed from a very good one to a most indifferent one.  How often this happens in a run!  And it is one of the fox-hunter’s chief consolations that there is scarcely a day throughout the season on which a run is impossible, if only a fox will set his head resolutely up wind, just as in a ringing run there is a certain amount of consolation in the thought that a fox must travel up wind part of the way.

It is evident that, being beaten, Reynard has given up all idea of going for the earths three miles away.  He is beginning, like all tired foxes, to twist and turn.  There is no scent on the road; the hounds are therefore laid on in a grass field, and feather across it in an uncertain sort of way.  This gives an opportunity to a sportsman who has just arrived by the road to proclaim that “as usual they are hunting hares.”  However, there is some pretty hunting done by the pack up a hedgerow and across a ploughed field; but with scent growing less and less, as is always the case with a tired, twisting fox, we do not get along very fast.  Hares are jumping up in all directions, and a terrible nuisance they are on this sort of occasion!  That hounds will stick to their fox, twist and turn though he may, in spite of hares, is a fact that is often proved in this country, when a lucky view has once more put them on good terms with the hunted fox, at a time when half the field have been crying “hare.”  But when a fox’s scent has gradually diminished until it tends to vanishing point, it is useless to attempt to hunt him.  This appears to be the case this morning, for the sun has scattered the mists, and has been shining the last ten minutes with tremendous vigour.  We are glad when the master decides to give it up, for we hope to have some more runs with this old fox later on in the season.  Hounds and horses have had enough for the time of year.  So we turn our horses’ heads to the cool breeze that is ever present on the Cotswolds, making the climate there one of the most delightful in the world in summer and autumn.  And as we ride slowly homeward over the hill, past golden stubble fields, there is much that is picturesque to be seen on all sides:  for some late barley is not yet gathered in; horses, drawing great yellow waggons, and old-fashioned Cotswold labourers are busy amongst the sheaves; and there is an air of activity and animation in the fields that is absent a month or two later.  Bleak and desolate does this country sometimes look in winter, though when the sun shines it is fair enough.  And suddenly, as we ride along, a lovely valley is seen below:  old-world farmhouses and gabled cottages come into view, nestling amid stately elms and beech trees already touched by autumn’s hand.  As we gradually descend the hill, everything looks more beautiful than ever this morning; for we have had a gallop.  For to-day at least we shall be in a thoroughly good temper.  Whatever the morrow may bring forth, everything will appear to-day in the best possible light.  Such an excellent tonic is a fast gallop over the walls for banishing dull care away.