I am, therefore, very
persistent in my advice to the man who purposes to hunt without
jumping. Let him not jump at all. To jump, but only to jump a
little, is fatal. Let him think of Jones.
The man who hunts and doesn't jump, presuming him not to be a
duke or any man greatly established as a Nimrod in the hunting
world, generally comes out in
a black coat and a hat, so that he may not be specially
conspicuous in his deviations from the line of the running. He
began his hunting probably in search of exercise, but has
gradually come to add a peculiar amusement to that pursuit; and
of a certain phase of hunting he at last learns more than most of
those who ride closest to the hounds. He becomes wonderfully
skillful in surmising the line which a fox may probably take, and
in keeping himself upon roads parallel to the ruck of the
horsemen. He is studious of the wind, and knows to a point of the
compass whence it is blowing. He is intimately conversant with
every covert in the country; and, beyond this, is acquainted with
every earth in which foxes have had their nurseries, or are
likely to locate them. He remembers the drains on the different
farms in which the hunted animal may possible take refuge, and
has a memory even for rabbit-holes. His eye becomes accustomed to
distinguish the form of a moving horseman over half-a-dozen
fields; and let him see but a cap of any leading man, and he will
know which way to turn himself.
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