Perhaps I am a Sybarite, but I do like to drive both to and from hunting, and to have a second horse out completes my joy. An open cart with a polo pony to drive, is to me better than all the broughams in Christantee. To drive on in the morning through the soft damp air that smells like hunting, with hopes running high for the sport to come, seeing the tiniest second horseman jogging on with the biggest of horses, everything makes one feel the joy of life. And when the day is over, to slide off your horse and send him home, and turn in yourself to a bright fire, and tea and poached eggs, at some little Inn by the way, is most comforting. Then you wrap yourself up in your fur coat and woolly gloves, and tuck yourself in to the rugs, and bowl away home in the twilight, with the stars twinkling above you, and the blackbird chuckling his good-night, while the pony trots his best in the anticipation of oats to come. A pleasant sense of healthy tiredness is upon you, which serves to make you appreciate the comforts of your drive, as you sit there cosy and warm, dreaming of the happy day that is done. R. M. Burn. [Illustration: _Elliott and Fry. 55, Baker Street._ _LADY GIFFORD AND HER HARRIERS._] HARE HUNTING. This sport has a peculiar interest for women inasmuch as they are able to take a leading part in it. With foxhounds, the duties of the huntsman are too arduous, even though a woman M.F.H. has not been unknown in the past. But to the Lady Salisbury of venatic fame who hunted the fox manfully over Hertfordshire, we may refer as the exception that proves the rule, for few women would feel they had the physical strength for the task. With harriers, however, the case is different, for in the first place the little hounds are very handy, and the hunting of the hare is a sport which should above all things be conducted quietly. The less holloaing and noise there is with them the better, for the hounds should be trusted to work out the puzzles set them by the hare, with as little interference as possible. Of course hare hunting may be turned into a poor imitation of fox-hunting, by racing a hare to death with 22-inch foxhound bitches, but this is not true sport in any sense, for it gives the quarry little chance of saving its life, and should be discountenanced by all lovers of the chase. Apropos of this subject, there was in a certain harrier country a great, flat-sided, long-legged hound which attracted the notice of a sport-loving stranger, as being evidently too fast for the pack. In all innocence this visitor remarked to the Master, "I suppose you will draft that hound?" To his astonishment the Master, with an expression of horror and indignation, exclaimed, "Draft him, why he is the best hound I have. He kills more hares than all the rest put together." The visitor said nothing, but he knew the kind of sport that lay before him.