“To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine. … Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn.” “I hate this meet,” observed Tom Holt, as we arrived at four cross ways close to the market town nearest our kennel. “I hate this meet worse than any we have in the country.” “It’s not a pleasant one, certainly,” replied the huntsman. “Pleasant?” repeated Tom. “In the first place there’s a nasty, close, woodland country with banks as high as churches. Then we have a pack of riff-raff counter skippers to over-ride hounds, halloo, head the fox, and play the devil. And as if this was not enough for one blessed day’s misery the Squire himself generally finds fault all day long with everybody and everything, when the fixture’s at these four cross ways.” “We had better christen them the cross purposes then,” returned Will Sykes. “I don’t mean to say,” continued Tom, without noticing the huntsman’s remark, “but he may have--heaven knows!--lots of causes to put him out of temper; still it’s rather hard to feel oneself suffering for the faults of others.” “It is not an unusual circumstance, though,” said Will Sykes. “I have often heard of similar instances unconnected with hounds and hunting.” Some of the field had arrived before us, and others were trotting briskly up, the hoofs of their horses clattering along the roads in all directions. “We must look out for ourselves to-day,” said Trimbush, “or there will be cases for the hospital.” “They are a rough-looking set,” replied I, glancing at some thirty horses, not one of which would fetch ten pounds, and all in a high state of perspiration, with their riders puffing cigars and smelling of all kinds of horrible mixtures. I felt quite ill, and a little more would have turned my stomach. “If any of these gentlemen,” remarked Trimbush, sneezing, “of high rank and particular smell, get down wind of us to-day, we shall not be able to hunt a yard.” “What a dreadful thing it is,” returned I, “that men should make themselves so offensive. I don’t suppose they have any noses, have they?” “Can’t you see they have?” replied my companion. “But it doesn’t follow that they are any use,” said I. “Well!” added Trimbush, “as far as that goes I don’t think they are, although I have heard of some men capable of smelling a rat.”